Loki
by thefireplanet
Summary: In which Loki is banished instead of Thor, the God of Thunder takes the throne, Asgard falls to war, and the God of Mischief and Lies becomes, well—speechless.
1. Chapter 1

**a/n:** so yeah. apparently i have a thing for writing movie-verse AUs. plus Loki is one of my fav Thor characters and i want to redeem him before he goes crazy in The Avengers.

if you guys are interested in hearing more of this story then please review :)

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><p>"Wait for it." Jane Foster looks impatiently up at the crystal clear New Mexico sky. She feels the need to repeat herself but refrains. Beneath her, underneath the reflection of the moon on the windshield, Darcy is fiddling with something idly beneath the dashboard, managing to look completely uninterested. Erik, on her other side, begins in a soft, placating voice, "Jane—"<p>

"No." She cuts him off, turning her face back to the sky and refusing to move. "No, Erik, this doesn't make any sense." She huffs out a breath into the night and it fogs a little before her. The stars twinkle merrily, and she is suddenly, irrationally angry at them for misreading her mood entirely. She hunkers back through the sunroof and into the Pinzgauer, amid all the flashing and blinking lights and soft whirr of computer equipment. She pulls her notebook from her jacket pocket and opens it rather violently to a page filled with her neat, precise handwriting. "The last _fifteen_ anomalies have been predictable down to the _second_—"

"Well, Jane, that doesn't mean that this one is going to be—" Erik's voice is still soft, kind, but disappointment is radiating in her chest like a sun and she hisses stubbornly, interrupting him, "_Yes, it does_."

"Uh, guys." Darcy looks up from the front seat, or at least, Jane takes her shift in movement to be her looking up—she's too busy scouring her notebook for a mistake in her calculations to actually pay attention. She doesn't answer right away, and Erik just lets out a heavy sort of sigh that seems to actually, physically _hang_ in the car, not helping Jane's temperament. "Guys." Darcy says again, a little more urgently.

"What?" Jane snaps, looking up. Darcy has her face pressed against the windshield, her finger pointing straight ahead. Her iPod ear buds are twirled around it, and Jane thinks she can hear the faint sound of Miike Snow filtering loudly through the speakers.

But honestly, at this moment, the growing color of the horizon sky is the thing most holding her attention.

Jane shuts her notebook, watching as the clouds coalesce into something big and gray and menacing, lightning shooting off into the clear summer sky. She thrusts it back into her jacket and nearly falls over herself trying to get to the video camera lying on the floor. As she flicks it open and hits the record button she shouts, "Drive!"

The old, converted army van pulses unsteadily forward under Darcy's tired foot, and Jane nearly knocks over several pieces of equipment in her haste to thrust the camera out of the sun roof and towards the anomaly. And she repeats, like a prayer, "Drive!"

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><p><em>"It is unwise to be in my company right now, brother."<em>

_ He sits anyway, long legs folded before him on the steps of the banquet hall, his brother's shoulder touching his own. He wants to remark on his brother's foul temper, but the sight of the overturned, golden table and the succulent food smeared across black floor like blood stops him. He licks his lips and says nothing. _

_ "Today was to be my day of triumph!"_

_ His own mood sours at that comment. He peers sideways at the clenched fist, the blonde hair, the narrow, angry blue eyes. When he opens his mouth what comes out surprises him—or perhaps it doesn't. Either way. "It'll come, in time. If it's any consolation, I think you're right. About the Frost Giants, about Laufey, about everything. If they were able to slip past Asgard's defenses once, whose to say they won't try again. Next time with an army."_

_ Never mind who had let the Frost Giants in in the first place. He clasps his fingers before him, resting his hands on his knees. He knows the effect that his words will have, and he knows, as they echo across the hall, why he has said them, but he feels no need to explain. The plan, to him, makes perfect sense. _

_ If Thor is not king for a few more millennia, so much the better for Asgard. _

_ "Exactly!" Thor beats a fist into an open palm, looking frustrated and easier to read than a book. _

_ "There's nothing you can do without defying father." He continues quietly, looking sternly sideways. Thor returns his gaze, a slow smile spreading over his features, and he immediately shakes his head in response. "No. No, no, no, no, I know that look." _

_ "It's the only way to ensure the safety of our borders!"_

_ "Thor, it's madness."_

_ But he knows right then that his brother will go through with it anyway._

_ And he couldn't be happier. _

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><p>He wakes up in pieces.<p>

First, his consciousness, swimming through the heavy blackness surrounding him, a faint light, rainbow and odd, just visible through his closed eyelids.

Then, his feet. He moves them carefully, one and then the other, assessing, silently, the damage done to his legs.

Then, his hands, long, graceful fingers stretching forward one by one until he is rolling them along a tough, gritty surface.

He opens his eyes.

There is a veritable tornado around him, swirling to the beat of a heavy storm that layers the night sky. The ground beneath him is sand, or dirt, or dead grass, or some mixture thereof, and he digs the heels of his hands into it and pushes himself up. A wave of dizziness hits him directly between the eyes and he blanches, shutting them quickly once more and waiting for the world to right. After a moment he tries again, the palms of his hands cutting into invisible rocks as he staggers to his feet.

He manages to stand, struggling a step towards the wall of the storm—then he stumbles forward, knees hitting ground then elbows then hands. He pushes himself back up, feeling like he had one too many sips of ale. Though he is sick he manages to cringe at the thought; his brother was always the one to get roaring drunk at feasts. He had a little more dignity than _that_—

His brother.

The fight.

He stands a little straighter, looking directly up the funnel-shaped cloud surrounding him. Lightning flashes, and the wind whips his hair over the front of his eyes. He opens his mouth to let out a fury-filled yell—nameless and faceless, it is immediately lost on the wind. He staggers to the side, his mind reeling, his face slick with sweat, his stomach nauseous, and he tries to calm his roaring nerves, for his father will only listen to an appeal to reason. _At least_, he thinks as the cloud begins to dissipate and he readies his petition to his father, _I have not broken any_—

The deafening monster barrels through the storm, hits him, and then there is black.

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><p><em>They hit the cool metal of the floor of the observation deck and immediately he feels like falling to his knees from the overwhelming presence in the room. His eyes trace up the steps to where his father stands, Gugnir Spear held loftily in one hand. The powerful lightning running the Bifrost cackles once, twice, and then stops, leaving the room silent except for the heavy breathing of Fandral, supported between Hogun and Volstagg. <em>

_ "Get him to the healing room." His father snaps into the silence, and the Warriors Three plus one Lady Sif leave the entrance to the Bifrost. He watches as they pass Heimdall, their forms retreating down the Rainbow Bridge, but is startled out of staring by the sharp clack of his father's spear against the smooth floor. _

_ In the silence that follows his gaze travels to his brother. MjoInir hangs loosely from his grasp. His hair is wind-tossed, face alight with his lust for battle._

_ And Asgard was to be ruled by _that_?_

_ At last his father speaks, yet Loki still cannot bring himself to meet the man's gaze. _

_ "Thor, Odinson, through your arrogance and stupidity, you have opened these peaceful realms and innocent lives to the horror and devastation of war..."_

_"Father—" Loki tries, tries to look like a good brother, only his father roars out, "NAY!" and he stops immediately._

_ "Who put that idea in your head, boy?" Odin AllFather hisses angrily towards Thor, Gugnir stamping across the floor like a third leg as he approaches his son. Thor looks sideways, but Loki does not return his brother's gaze; his own is fixed near his feet, but he curses his brother's stupidity. _

_ "When I am king I will _crush_ the Jotuns under my foot for the disrespect they showed at my coronation—"_

_ "But you aren't king, yet!" Odin's voice becomes as loud as the waves crashing into nothingness below them and then gets deathly quiet. "Are you?" He continues, "A wise king knows when the best course of action is attack—and when it is not."_

_ "Well," Thor says haughtily, his blue eyes turning up to meet those of Odin, and Loki can sense the anger simmering beneath the surface of his voice, "then you are an old man and a fool!"_

_ "You are a vain, greedy boy!" Odin roars. He stamps back up to the pedestal containing the Bifrost controls and thrusts the spear in the center. Lightning snaps around the room like an angry, captive dog. "You are unworthy of MjoInir, and I take it from you now, in the name of my father, and his father before him!"_

_ Loki looks up at this, and his eyes are wide. Odin's hand reaches before him, grasping for the empty air; only Loki can sense the strings of magic pulling Thor's hammer forcefully from his grasp. _

_ He did not want this._

_ MjoInir flies into the AllFather's waiting hand; he presses it close to his mouth, as if he is whispering to it a secret. Behind the brothers the gate to the nine realms is opening, a myriad of colors and lights. Loki finds his gaze torn between his father and the hypnotizing glow of the bridge behind him, but then Odin sends the hammer forward with an angry shout and he watches as his brother's most prized and powerful weapon topples into the unknown. Thor stands rigid, his eyes bright, his mouth set in a firm angry line. Loki pulls his head, mouth slightly open, to stare at his father. _

_ "As for you." Loki starts as his father addresses him and only him. "Twisting your brother to your whim, and for what? For what?"_

_ He opens his mouth to respond smoothly but his father forges ahead. "Loki, you must learn to control that silver tongue of yours! I will not have you causing war in Asgard because of some jealous feud—"_

_ "I was not jealous!" He breaks in here. Thor is looking oddly at him, he can sense it. "I will never be jealous of him!" He hisses._

_ Things are barreling out of control, and so rarely does this happen to him that he is caught off guard, like a physical blow to the chest. He stands raggedly, tiredly in the light of the lightning and looks, mouth slightly agape, at Thor. His brother's thick hands are still open, as if waiting for his hammer to appear suddenly into them. Blue eyes meet green, and then Thor says, "Father, the idea was my own, and I wished to attack Jotunheim long before Loki suggested it—"_

_ Loki cringes. The words hang heavily in the air. Odin looks between his two boys, and there is something sad and weary in his one visible eye._

_ "Your actions today started a chain that I do not know if I will be able to stop." Odin's voice has grown heavy, continuing on like he never heard Thor. "You follow your brother into unnecessary battle, yet you are the one who pushes him into that battle! You need learn control, Loki Odinson, and until the moment which you do, until the moment which your selfish actions become unselfish, I take from you your power! In the name of my father, and of his father before him, I cast you out!"_

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><p>"Oh my God!" Jane screeches as she struggles with the steering wheel and Darcy struggles with the break. For a moment after they come to a sudden halt everything is silent except for their thick heavy breathing. Then, as one, Darcy and Erik open their doors and Jane scrambles out after them.<p>

The figure the Pinzgauer hit is lying on his back in the sand. His arms are spread eagle, and she thinks there may be a bloodstain growing on his abdomen, but maybe she's just overreacting—she lurches forward, bending down beside him with worried, concerned eyes. She ignores Darcy behind her ( "Where did he _come _from?") and pushes a strand of her hair behind her ear, leaning close to the figure's pale face.

"Do me a favor and don't be dead," she breathes out.

The eyes open suddenly and she is left staring straight into ones that are icy, angry, and incredibly green.

"He's alive!" she says, the relief tangible in her voice. She lets out a breath she didn't even know she was holding, though her stomach is still a tight ball of nerves. Darcy's voice sounds behind her again; it sounds muffled, like she's ruffling through her purse or something.

"This is turning out to be one hell of a night."

Jane looks up at the dissipating storm clouds and can't help but agree.


	2. Chapter 2

**a/n: **guys, your reviews were absolutely amazing! thank you so much! i'm afraid to post this chapter because i don't want to disappoint anyone, but here it goes. i'll try to update once more before school starts, because after that things will get sporadic.

please review :)

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><p>"Does he need CPR? Because I totally know CPR." Darcy's voice is loud in the silence following the storm's dispersal.<p>

Jane is worried for all of about three seconds, until she sees what's lying _underneath_ the man, burned into the desert ground with the precision of a laser cutter, and then she has to fight the urge to roll him over so she can get a better look. Her hair keeps falling around her eyes and she fitfully shoves it behind her ears, tracing the edge of the strange, intricate design with a single finger. In the headlights of the Pinzgauer the dirt stands blackened and burned. Her nail bumps over tufts of dying grass and bits of charcoal.

"Erik, look at this!" Her hand flutters around her jacket pocket for her notebook but she can't seem to concentrate enough to bring it out. "Look at this! We have to move quickly, before this all changes."

The figure takes a sharp intake of breath and she momentarily abandons the strange mark to see why. He's sitting up, now, profile hawkish and thin, silhouetted in the white headlights of the car. He fairly blends into the night, what with his black shirt and loose black pants and black hair—black black black black like the marking on the ground. She goes back to staring at it.

"Jane." Erik's voice sounds close, somewhere roughly above her left ear, maybe. She finally manages to pull her notebook from her jacket pocket, opening it feverishly to the first blank page available and unhooking the pen from the front leather cover. "Jane."

"Hm?"

She doesn't know what to take down. Oh God, what does she take down? A full sketch, maybe? Definitely samples of the burned dirt, and pictures—lots of pictures, and a video recording for posterity's sake—

"Jane!"

"What?" She snaps back, turning upwards to find Erik's face. The wind blows her hair across her eyes and she shoves it away impatiently.

"We need to get him to a hospital."

She rolls her eyes and glances back at the man. He's gotten to his feet, standing left of center of the strange marking. He tries to take a step forward and falls, clutching his stomach. Erik immediately moves in an attempt to help but the man's already upright again.

"Hammer." He croaks sharply, looking from left to right, squinting into the darkness.

"Yeah, we can tell you're hammered." Darcy's head moves forward and she mutters, "It's pre-tty obvious." Jane nods her head noncommittally, her gaze locking back on to the landing site.

"See? He's fine, look at him!"

"Father! Can you hear me?" He begins at a yell, only his voice goes hoarse at the end and eventually he fades into a fit of coughing, one hand on his knee, the other still firmly around his middle. Jane looks at him with a slightly open mouth. The sky's cleared, all remnants of the anomaly gone, so unless he's communing with the _stars_ then there is absolutely no one around but her, Darcy, and Erik—

"Alright. Hospital. You go. I stay." She reaches blindly behind her with the hand gripping her white pen, hoping to pat Erik reassuringly on the leg, only she can't seem to find his leg and ends up waving her arm around awkwardly in the air for a moment.

"Father! Heimdall! Open the Bifrost!"

"Jane, we have to leave. Now."

"You!" The man staggers forward and Erik's leg is suddenly obscuring her vision, as if that could protect her from a drunken maniac. She stares up at him, mouth still open, breathing in the harsh, cool night air. "This realm—" he pauses, and she feels his eyes searching her face. Then: "Is this Midgard?"

In the light from the Pinzgauer his face is blank, pale and smooth. His mouth is set in a firm line and his eyes are still the angry green of before. She forces her jaw shut but it falls back open of its own accord. A little red dot of light flashes suddenly onto the man's black shirt, somewhere underneath his clavicle, and Darcy deadpans, "New Mexico."

Jane looks back and sees the taser the intern is gripping firmly between her right and left hands—it must have been the thing she was shuffling around in her purse for, earlier. Good for her, she knew self-defense—now, about that landing site—

"Is that a mortal weapon?" His voice is drawn and tight. Jane watches him from the corner of her eye as he straightens considerably, no longer doubled over his abdomen. "How amusing." His hand flexes strangely and Jane narrows her eyes at him. Nothing happens, and he looks down at it, like it suddenly sprouted wings and flew away from the rest of his arm.

"It'll be more amusing when I taser your b—"

"Darcy!" Erik warns, taking another step towards the figure, arms raised as if he were approaching a wounded dog. "Sir, we need to get you to a hospital."

"I will not be ordered around like some servant." He bites out coldly. "I require no aid."

"Your stomach says otherwise." Jane says rather offhandedly, flipping through her notes, then reaching back into her jacket for a camera. "I'd say a couple of bruised ribs. Nothing broken, Darcy wasn't going _that_ fast."

"Uh, I think this whole thing is legally your fault."

She bites her lip and begins to sketch out the beginnings of the burn mark. There is a pause when nothing happens. Erik stays, arms outstretched, Darcy's finger still hovers over the trigger, and Jane continues to draw haphazardly in the dim headlights of the car. The figure clutches his side.

"I'd advise you to put your weapon down, mortal." He rasps out suddenly and Darcy, taken off guard, gives an undignified little yelp, toppling sideways into Jane. Her pen pushes in an ugly mark across the smooth white paper and she looks up to protest, only the trigger on the taser's been pulled and she watches, slightly horrified, as two long electrically charged wires miss their mark and embed themselves in the man's lower abdomen. His eyes roll back into his head and he collapses onto the ground.

Jane's mouth is wide open, and she looks up in shock at Darcy, who is holding the gun daintily between her thumb and forefinger, not bothering to look the least bit mortified. "Darcy!" Jane and Erik say at nearly the exact same time and in the exact same tone. She begins to reel in the electrical wire.

"What? He was freaking me out."

Jane clips her pen onto the leather cover and puts her notebook in her jacket and sighs heavily. "Alright. Hospital. Everyone."

Nobody moves so she feels the need to add in a resigned tone:

"Now."

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><p><em>He's unaffected by the cold; the others huddle further into their winter cloaks<em><em>—<em>_especially Fandral, as if he is afraid the ice will spoil his good looks—but he walks forward with a careful air, near his brother, staring at the ruins of the once mighty Jotunheim and barely feeling the frigid breeze. _

_ The ice melts in large, asymmetrical chunks, the land nearly crumbling beneath their feet as they walk. The world is shrinking, its edges closing in, a glacial waterfall tumbling down into darkness. His foot breaks the thin, frosty layer of ice on the ground with each quick step. _

_ "We should not be here." Hogun says softly, and Loki looks sideways at his grim, imposing figure. Then he looks to Thor, a small, rather insignificant part of him hoping and praying for his friend's worry to reach his brother's logic, Odin forbid, but the blonde does nothing, except maybe quicken his pace. He sighs, his breath fogging up around his eyes. _

_ Thor stops and Loki follows, though it takes him a moment to realize why. The ruins surrounding him look like the same ruins they had been walking between for the past half-hour—large, towering iron-ice structures crumbling from top to bottom. As if on cue a great pillar tips dangerously and falls somewhere in the distance. Then he glances up._

_ There, hidden in shadows, is a figure as blue and menacing as the landscape, giant hands kneaded, giant elbows on giant knees, and the only thing he can clearly make out are the deep, red eyes shining through the half-light of the frosty moon. _

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><p>He pads into the small room, gold walls assaulting his eyes after the walk through the darkened palace. A fire crackles merrily in the middle of the circular space, licking upwards towards the ceiling. He stands for a moment at the entry, silent, angry, and watches as Sif rubs a slave onto Volstagg's blackened arm. Fandral is propped up on several down-filled pillows; despite the bandages wrapped firmly around his chest, nearly tethering him in place, he tries to sneak a peak at his reflection in the nearest goblet. Hogun is by the balcony, blending into the night in a way he only ever saw his brother match—<p>

His brother.

He feels sick again, and is about to turn and leave for his chambers when Sif looks up. "Thor! There you are."

He strides into the room and reaches for Fandral's mirror. The goblet is heavy in his hands and he does not look at what's inside it as he takes a liberal sip. It burns down his throat, doing nothing for his stomach, but he takes another drink anyway, ignoring Fandral's feeble protests.

"Here I am." He says when he finishes, slapping the goblet back onto the table.

"But where is Loki?" Volstagg tests his hand as Sif finishes up with the burn salve. The tendons stretch and pull, his fingers close, and the first thing he reaches for is the large turkey leg sitting demurely on an ornate dinning platter next to Thor's newly empty goblet. "Not that I like him, over much, but he did save our lives."

"Yes, where is the little bugger?" Fandral drawls, opening and closing his own hands towards another, full ale mug. Sif rolls her eyes and slides it forward, until he can reach.

Thor blinks rapidly, turning quickly on his heel. His heavy strides carry him to the balcony, where Hogun still leans, and then back towards the fire in quick, even paces. "Thor?" Sif questions, reaching forward to place a thin-fingered hand on his forearm as he passes. "What troubles you?"

He stops, tense.

"Yes, what troubles you?" Fandral smacks his lips and leans further back into his makeshift bed, tossing the empty goblet carelessly to the floor. "We successfully invaded Jotunheim—must have destroyed at least half of what was left of the place."

"My brother is banished."

"What?" Sif's hand pulls back as Volstagg chokes a bit on a large piece of meat. The skin hangs delicately from his mouth as he says through a full bite of food, "Odin's beard!"

"Whatever for?" Fandral closes his eyes, looking, out of everyone, the least perturbed by the entire situation. Hogun finally enters the light of the fire and directs his gaze steadily onto Thor.

"Father…father thought Loki responsible for the invasion of Jotunheim. He said he puts thoughts in other people's heads."

"But he does." Sif frowns, crossing her arms. "It is horrible news, to be sure, but I am not fond of Loki, Thor."

"I think you biased, Sif." He responds with a short-live grin, eyeing her dark, almost black hair.

"Whatever the case," Hogun interrupts before Sif can snap a retort, "she is right. Loki _does_ put thoughts into other's minds, and then reaps the reward of the mischief that follows."

Thor never knew Hogun to be so wordy. He raises an eyebrow.

"But why banish him now?" Fandral enunciates, like a half-sigh, drawing out the end of his sentence. "Loki's been causing mischief for millions of years, and the AllFather has never saw fit to banish him before."

"There is a purpose to all he does." Sif shrugs, but she seems to be over the matter entirely, primly sitting on the nearest chair and crossing her legs, sending the knives situated there into a frenzy as the bump against each other. "Perhaps the AllFather merely sought to teach Loki a lesson."

He clenches his fist and looks away, sensing truth the truth in Sif's words. Then he opens his mouth.

"That is not all." Thor dreads the next part. He looks to the small step that leads to the fire, the place where his brother would have normally, sat, calm, collected, and draws a deep breath. "He took from me my hammer."

"_What_?" Sif stands straight, Volstagg enters another violent coughing fit, and even Fandral deigns to open his eyes. Hogun remains silent, and, almost absentmindedly, rubs the handle of his mace.

"He took MjoInir, and he cast it out with my brother. I know where neither of them are." He looks at his hands and they remain empty. "Without my brother I have no adviser. And without my hammer I am not strong enough to protect Asgard."

"Nonsense, Thor." Sif snorts gently, though the shock has not yet worn away from her eyes. "You are the most skilled warrior, with any weapon."

"And besides," Volstagg tosses the bone of the turkey leg back onto the table, "you need only ask Heimdall where the hammer is, and then you can take the Bifrost to go and fetch it!"

"Simple, really." Fandral mutters, half-asleep.

"I fear it is not so simple." He finds himself opening and closing his hands, first one, then the other. He looks back to the empty spot on the step. The room grows quiet except for the snap of the fire as it burns orange and red at the top and blue near the bottom, blue like the icy plains of Jotunheim, and into the silence his whisper echoes with the force of a thousand sword strokes.

"I wish my brother were here."

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><p><em>"The House of Odin is full of traitors…" Laufey's voice fades into a quiet chuckle and Loki's heart clenches momentarily at the insinuation. He peers sideways at Thor, but his brother is only angry at the slight to the AllFather's household and does not register the implications of the statement. He could almost sigh in relief.<em>

_ "Do not smear my father's name with your lies!" Thor's knuckles are white-fisted over MjoInir's handle. Loki can sense the warriors spread semi-circle behind them tense as well. _

_ He is enjoying this game immensely. _

_ "Your father is a murderer and a thief!" Laufey roars. Loki spies movement in the shadows of the ruins. "And why have YOU come, to talk of peace? You long for battle, you crave it! You're nothing more than a boy trying to prove himself a man! You don't know what your actions would bring about... I do. Go now, while I still allow it."_

_The king's deep voice rings throughout the old throne room, which now faces the sky and the dying world of ice beyond. He sees figures forming, large, imposing figures, until he counts nearly a dozen Frost Giants gathered around them. He's struck with the feeling that his fun is over, the lesson taught, and to take it any further would spell disaster. He looks back to the diamonds and nebulas dotting the black sky but sees no rainbow glimpse of Bifrost. Thor's grip on his hammer tightens and he steps forward quickly, smoothly, gripping his shoulder and whispering urgently into his ear. _

_ "Think, brother!" His eyes trace the figures coalescing from the darkness. "Look around you! We cannot win this fight. Let us return to Asgard."_

_ There is a brief moment in which he thinks his brother will not listen, will still charge forward blindly like a newborn foal, but then the moment passes and his brother's shoulder goes pliant beneath his hand. He looks up towards Laufey's shaded figure. "We will accept your most gracious offer." He watches the blue eyes meet red, breath held in the icy darkness. Then he turns, jostling Thor's arm as he does. "Come on, brother." He says forcefully. _

_ He does not look to see if he is being followed, and does not breath until he catches the slight snap of frost being broken. Then he looks pointedly at Sif and the Warriors Three._

_ And then:_

_ "Run back home little princess."_

_ His plans are shot to hell._

_ "Damn."_

* * *

><p>The beeping enters his dream like the pointed fangs of a snake, and this thought causes his eyes to open immediately. There is a heavy whiteness surrounding him, and strange, square boxes stand stacked near him, emitting the whirring and beeping sounds that chose to wake him. One in particular sends out a sharp noise nearly every second, and, rather blearily, his eyes trace the thin, green line that spikes across the monitor. He regards the contraption for a second, and then turns to take stock of things for the second time that night.<p>

His legs move at his command, which he is pleased about. The thin blanket covering them is a nuisance, however, and he throws it to the floor; the cold does not hit him.

His arms are the same, but a strange, thick tube is protruding from one of them, attached to the end of a bag full of clear liquid. He frowns down at the device, prodding it with his right hand. Some sort of fang had been forced into the vein at the crook of the elbow, and he pulls it out slowly, the point of the needle thin and ugly. He fights the urge to retch as he tosses it disdainfully onto the floor. From somewhere behind him a new sort of tick starts up rather urgently. He ignores it.

His stomach is the area of most concern. He closes his eyes and opens his hand, reaching, as he had done earlier, for the threads of magic that usually surrounded him, but, just as earlier—with those foolish, idiotic Midgardians—he could not sense anything. His eyes spring open and he fights for air, fights for calm. The beep of the machine with the green line picks up rapidly.

Never has he been without his magic. He is naked, a child, a newly born Pegasus without its wings.

He pushes down his fear and takes a deep, composed breath. He shall deal with his lack of magic later. The first thing to do is to assess his wound.

He looks down and, with a start, finds blue-tinged clothing nearly as flimsy and grating as the blanket he had thrown to the floor. His eyes search the white room, but no sign remains of his Asgardian garb. He curses in the Old Tongue, under his breath, and pulls back the hem of his shirt.

His stomach is layered with a bruise nearly the size of both his hands splayed next to each other, a deep, dark purple ink spot on his otherwise pale white skin. The edges fade out into a color much less horrifying, and the whole thing hurts to the touch. He gingerly runs a hand over it, and then, fighting a wince and keeping his face perfectly still, he begins prodding along his rib cage, but nothing feels broken or out of place.

He's broken ribs before, fighting with his brother. He is lucky it did not happen as such when the great metal beast hit him.

The obstinate, ugly beeping from before, the one not attached to the strange green line, has picked up speed. He hears movement from someone beyond and watches as the curtains, equally as flimsy as the blanket and his current clothing, sway a little. He frowns down at the snake's fang he threw on the floor, and then pushes himself upright.

He is a master at making himself unseen.

And right now, he needs be unseen.


	3. Chapter 3

**a/n:** so guys, the reviews have been amazing! really! they make my week, and make me want to update faster, and just thank you all so much for taking the time to do that! and your favorites and alerts, too! thank you :) i'm sorry i can't respond personally to each review, especially now because of school. yuck.

anyway, quick question, i've gotten both sides so far-how many like loki/jane? how many hate it?

i already know which way i'm going, i'm just curious.

anyway. please review :)

* * *

><p>"Name?"<p>

"Uh. He didn't really say." Jane taps the pads of her fingers along the counter, her nails clicking loudly in the silence of the hospital waiting room. Darcy, trying to be helpful and doing a rather good job of failing, says, "He mentioned 'father' a lot. And Handal. Or something like that." She adjusts her glasses. "If that's any help."

The nurse looks blankly at them from behind the divide, her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Jane gives a tight-lipped smile. "Not really, but thanks."

"I try." Darcy pushes her way closer to the counter, leveling her elbows on it and tilting her head to one side. Jane rubs her temples, because she has a headache. A monster headache. What she really needs right now are two Advil, the Pinzgauer, the anomaly site, and a camera. Her fingers slide down to the bridge of her nose.

What if the area had already been disturbed by animals? Or wind? Or another freak storm?

"Miss?"

"Hm?" Jane, blinking rapidly, pushes her hair back from her face.

"I said, we need a name to enter into the database."

"Didn't he…you know, have an ID on him or something?" She looks rather helplessly around her but Darcy is fiddling with the hem of her jacket and Erik is passed out in one of the thin, leather hospital chairs. "I mean, can't you just…wait until he comes to for that part?"

The nurse purses her thick lips and shakes her head, moving the mouse around in a circle on the track pad and then clicking on something Jane can't make out on the screen. She spell types, "A-N-O-N." Then:

"And what was the nature of the injury?"

"She hit him with her car." Darcy notes, still not bothering to look up from her jacket. Jane, managing to look slightly appalled, interjects quickly, "I grazed him." And then feels the need to add, "But she tasered him."

"Yes I did." Darcy raises her eyebrows, looking quite pleased with herself. Jane rolls her eyes, setting her head in one hand and imagining all the other nice interns she could have gotten to help her. Nice ones who kept their mouth shut and knew how to drive.

And was Erik going to let her take the car immediately back to the crash site? Or was he going to force her to wait until morning? Her eyes track the soft movement of his chest, on which his head is currently sitting. Her fingers continue to drum away on the counter.

"Alright, miss, can I see an ID?"

"What? Why?"

"I assume you didn't file a police report?"

"Well, no, we brought him straight here—"

"Then I need your ID, and I need you to fill out your insurance information." The nurse rolls her black chair backwards and reaches for the printer, which is huffing and puffing away, looking about thirty years too old. Jane's mouth is open when she returns, paper in hand, and slides it across the counter. "In case he wants to press charges."

"C-charges?" She stutters out. "_Are you serious_?"

She sees her credibility going down in a trail of fire and smoke.

Not that she had much credibility to start with, but trying to _build_ any would now be marred by the fact that she hit a man in the _middle of freaking nowhere_—

"All nurses in the vicinity to room E-4, I repeat, all nurses in the vicinity to room E-4. Thank you." Jane's startled out of her thoughts by the monotone voice coming from the PA system. She finds herself turning almost automatically to the noise filtering down the hall: incoherent shouts, a lot of running feet. A herd of about six doctors and nurses races pass, disturbing Erik in their haste, who sits up so quickly he practically tips the chair over. In unison Jane, Darcy, and the nurse's heads all turn to follow the group as they continue running straight by them, up the hall, and turn the corner.

In the silence that follows Darcy gives a little cough into her hand. "Shouldn't you ah…go help them?" She cants her head towards the end of the hall, eyes making an exaggerated swooping motion behind her glasses. The nurse staggers to her feet.

"Fill out that paperwork please, I'll be right back."

She hustles after the others, and, barely waiting for her to turn the corner, Jane grabs Darcy by the arm and drags her towards the entrance, thinking about how much she loves her intern.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming—"

"Erik!" Jane hisses to the man, who's righting his chair, looking disheveled and sleep-deprived and not at all like they just made a huge breakthrough in the desert. "Come on! We have to go!"

"Did you…" he scratches the back of his neck, looking idly at the floor and then meeting her eyes. She's poised by the automatic doors, which are opening and closing with confusing, alarming frequency. Darcy trips the motion sensors and stands in their way, so they can no longer shut. "Did you fill out the paper work?" He looks sleepily up at her.

"More or less." Jane smiles a little guilty. "I'll feel bad about it later. Not now—"

"Jane, we aren't going back to the desert, not tonight." He's shaking his head, more coherent, walking towards the doors. Jane eyes the hallway, thinking he sounds much too like her father at this point.

"Ok, ok, tomorrow—but we _are_ going back to the lab."

"No sleep?" Darcy sounds disappointed.

"Not tonight." Her excitement is bubbling through her like adrenaline and drugs and maybe something greater that she's never really felt. She grins, her smile eating up her face, heading towards the parking lot. "Tonight we have data to process."

* * *

><p><em>His brother's hammer falls slightly and then it is gone, thrown through the air like a child's plaything. The Jotun hits the wall with a resounding crack; it splinters beneath him, and the tremor causes a piece of ice-iron to break off from the top of the throne room encasement. Thor dispatches several more Frost Giants in a similar matter, and Loki makes himself scarce, flitting to the edge of battle.<em>

_ Damn. Damndamndamn—_

_ Hogun is next, sharp spikes protruding from his mace at the flick of a switch, and then the thing is sticking grotesquely from the shoulder of the nearest Jotun until he pulls down and out without so much as a grunt. Sif's double-bladed long staff impales the Giant behind her, and all Loki can hear amongst the footsteps of the beasts as they charge forward is Fandral laughing like a madman as he slashes away. _

_ Then his first challenge turns to face him, red eyes glowing, and he sends a well-aimed shot of light green magic towards its ice shield. The thing bursts and shatters, a million pieces cascading to the floor, singing their destruction. The beast staggers backwards, and he smiles a grim, smug sort of smile as the next one comes, the sounds of battle ringing loudly in his ears. _

_ "At least make it a challenge for me!" Thor roars amid the battle cries, mocking the Giants as they approach him from the sky. _

_ Such a stupid, stupid, war mongering—_

_ The beast is nearly on him. He backs up to the edge, playing the frightened, cornered boy, and only in the last second does the enchantment break; the Jotun falls heavily through the air and over into the void, still clutching for the being made of air. Loki motions from behind his hide away, his hand stretching, and suddenly the illusion is gone. _

_ He hears a slight hissing noise, Volstagg shouts in pain, and then: "Don't let them touch you!" _

_ He can make out the blackened, iced-marked skin on the large man's forearm and takes heed, but, again, before he can process much, another Jotun is bearing down upon him. He stabs forward, hand a blade of magic, gathering the strings of the world into one pointed swing. The Giant falls to his knees, reaching blindly forward, and Loki watches blandly as the blue skin grips his silver arm braces—_

_ They shatter into oblivion, with the same noise the ice-shield made earlier, but no pain follows, even as the Jotun's hand makes contact with his bare skin. A slow, blue tinge creeps up his arm and gathers at his fingers and he looks up slowly, disbelievingly, into the red eyes of the monster across from him. _

_ They are looking painfully steady back._

_ He sends a sharp shard of magic into the beast's heart, and it falls. His hand returns to its normal hue, the skin as pale and white as the frost surrounding him. He looks up at the battle, mind raging._

* * *

><p>He didn't understand. He could walk miles in Asgard without being noticed, but he walked three <em>feet<em> in Midgardian territory and suddenly the stupid mortals were on him like the hounds of Hel. He says nothing as the white-clad men and women lead him back to the bed, coaxing him, really, as if they think he is some _animal_ who cannot even understand the subtleties of human speech, which is _vastly_ inferior to the Old Language and a lot less difficult to comprehend—

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his emotions. He cannot afford to be anything but levelheaded at this juncture. He turns his gaze to the needle they re-inserted into the crook of his elbow, and then closes his eyes, picturing the chamber in its entirety that he observed upon their leading him back to his bed.

His own was not even a room—it was a space, designated by a white curtain, close to a window. The curtain could be pulled back to discover, as he had, another bed, in which lay an invalid with his leg pulled up in a hard case. The door would not be a viable escape option.

He knows why his father did this. He knows why he banished him to Midgard. The other option, facing his questions about—about the _incident_ in Jotunheim, his skin, the monster—Odin knew, he was sure. Knew something but wasn't saying it, knew that it was no longer safe to keep him in Asgard, knew it was easier to discard him, like a weapon broken at the hilt. Less liability. And the speech on 'unselfish action'—that had just been a front.

But just what exactly _is_ he? He couldn't possible be a—a—

He frowns, breathing raggedly again.

He takes a moment to calm himself, focusing on the situation at hand, and then turns his head and opens his eyes. The curtain to his right is swaying slightly in a breeze, and the plan, though crude and immensely reminiscent of something his brother would attempt, begins to formulate in his mind.

* * *

><p><em>The words ring in the Bifrost hall. At first nothing happens, except the lightning keeps singing a melancholy tune and the bridge behind him continues to spin. He looks open-mouthed at his father, eyebrows drawn together, the beginnings of a retort, of a reason, of a question on his lips, only then it happens. <em>

_ First his left arm, the armor unraveling like a spool of thread with an awful, screeching sound to rival the laughter of the lightning. It travels up, towards his gold chest plate, which is ripped from him, a physical blow, and ends on his right shoulder, above his fractured arm brace. His green cape falls in a pool around his feet and he does not have time to open his mouth before he feels the air move and suddenly he is shoved backward towards the bridge, his arms stretched disbelievingly before him. The last things he sees are Thor's eyes, wide—_

_And the AllFather's face, disappointed. _

* * *

><p>"I just don't understand it." Jane dry swallows some Advil as she imports the video she took into the nearest computer, setting it to screen, capture, and print the individual frames. She stands back up and looks at the weather data from the moments before the anomaly hit. It is pinned up on the nearest corkboard. "But the etchings, around these clouds, as they start to form here—Erik, do you <em>see<em> that?"

"Yes, I do." He frowns, coming to stand next to her, holding a cup of coffee in his hands.

"They have all the characteristics of—"

"—an Einstein-Rosen Bridge." She finishes excitedly, in unison with Erik, who sets his coffee cup down with a sigh and continues to examine the data on the board. Jane rips a paper off and examines it as she checks the progress of the video processing.

"A whata-what?" Darcy intones from the front of their makeshift lab, looking through the glass front and down the main boulevard of Puente Antiguo.

"An Einstein-Rosen Bridge." Jane repeats, standing up.

"Which is…?"

"A theoretical bridge between two different points in the space time continuum—"

"A wormhole." Erik proffers helpfully, making a sort of vacuum motion with his hands. Darcy nods slowly, but Jane doubts she understands completely.

_That's what you get for hiring a political science intern_, she thinks with a sigh.

The printer springs to life and begins feeding out screen caps; Darcy quickly moves over to it, beginning to take the images and pin them up on another one of their corkboards, this one lit by the fading light of the moon—dawn is approaching, and Jane couldn't be less tired.

"This is absolutely incredible." She breathes, jerking her notebook from her jacket and looking at the start of the sketch there. "This could validate all my research, all my theories—"

"Now Jane," Erik, ever the voice of reason, intercedes, "let's not get ahead of ourselves here, alright?"

"But Erik," she holds up the piece of paper with the weather patterns on it, slapping it with one hand, "have you ever in your life seen something like this?"

"I've seen—"

"With these markings?"

"Well, no, but I don't think you should get your hopes up too much—"

"And the star patterns—" she reaches over the desk for another printout, knocking speakers and wires to the floor.

"Jane—"

"Guys?" Darcy's voice sounds far away.

"Unless Ursa Minor decided to take a day off, these aren't our stars!"

"I'm just saying, let's not jump to conclusions."

"But this is the break I've been _looking_ for, Erik—"

"Guys!" Darcy tries again. Jane looks over at her with an annoyed glance that she is quickly coming to realize is the 'Darcy-I'm-having-an-epiphany-not-now' expression.

"What?" Erik looks as if he can't take any more surprises tonight.

"I think you should see this."

Jane walks slowly over to where she is pointing at one of the screen caps tacked up to the wall. The colors are heat-vision, red and orange and purple, a swirl extending upward towards the sky, and, in the left-hand corner, barely visible, is the distinct outline of a man—

She takes a deep breath in, the paper in her hand fluttering to the floor.

"What?" Erik repeats as he approaches. Jane reaches for her jacket, which still sits where she draped it unceremoniously over one of the kitchen chairs on the way in.

"I think I left something at the hospital."

* * *

><p><em>There is cheering, loud and raucous and annoying. He is hardly noticed, standing on the black, ebony steps leading up to the throne; but then, he knows, logically, that this should cause him no pain, for neither is Sif nor the Warriors Three nor even his mother, Frigga. No, all attention today is on Thor, who strides confidently down the carpeted path towards the AllFather. His brother flips MjoInir in his hands, catching it easily by the handle, playing to the crowd with an easy grin.<em>

_ "Oh, please." Sif rolls her eyes on the other side of him._

_ He tries to hide his annoyance. _

_ Loki watches; he is always watching. But today he is acting, too. Today will be the start, and by the end Thor will be away from the throne for a few years longer, and Asgard will not fall to ruin._

_ His brother kneels before the AllFather._

_ It is only a matter of time._

* * *

><p>He knows he will have only moments to act once he pulls the needle from his arm. He closes his eyes one more time and tries again to picture the window, every detail, perfectly sharp, crystalline—<p>

Glass, slightly open to let in a small breeze, with some sort of impeding material slightly blurring the view outside behind it, but this appeared no thicker than silk.

He takes a deep breath, in, out, and then, in one fluid motion, rips the needle from his arm for a second time that night. The inane beeping begins.

As he sits up he feels dizzy, tired, sluggish, and immediately he curses whatever form of poison the mortals dipped into his blood with the pointed object now lying on the floor. He staggers to his feet, thin clothes chafing against his skin as he makes for the window. The curtains draw back easily.

He wants so much to close his eyes.

The glass is parted halfway and he slides it upwards. He punches out the screen behind it easily with the palm of his hand, watching as the wind catches it and pulls it away into the fading night sky. He can just make out the sun peaking over the horizon, looking incredibly dull on the Midgardian plane.

Noise, from behind him. He steps forward and looks down. A black, paved area with white lines is directly beneath him, bearing some of the metal beasts that hit him earlier. The drop does not seem far—hopefully far enough to shatter any Midgardian who attempted to follow him, but also hopefully not enough to break any of his Asgardian bones.

Provided he even _is_ Asgardian.

The noise gets louder and, without a second thought and a quick glance to the sky, as if he knows Heimdall is watching, he vaults nimbly into the empty air—

—and plummets like a rock, straight towards the black area. The impact knocks the air from his lungs and forces him to his knees, side throbbing like fire, and then a noise, sudden and loud, blares like a horn, bellowing into the early dawn, and the mortals are shouting something from above and his ankle is twisted painfully—

His green eyes look up, and he forces his face into a blank mask. High, heavy lights illuminate him, and he can make out the silhouette of a familiar looking object, one that shuttered to a stop not two feet from him.

"I'm not trying to hit you, I swear." The door opens. He recognizes that voice.

The annoying mortal from before.

Just his luck.

The girl steps into the light. She's small. He could probably bend her in half if he wanted to. Her hair flies around her face in the early morning breeze, and her bright eyes are looking between him and the people shouting from the floor above.

She motions back to the metal beast. "Get in."

He weighs his options but does not move.

"They'll come back out here for you—get in." She repeats. From inside the monster he hears a muffled cry of, "_Jane_ hurry _up_!"

He straightens, aching as he has never ached before, tasting the sharp, metallic tang of blood in his mouth. His side clenches as he takes a step forward; his ankle nearly gives out. He bites his tongue, sending more blood to the back of his throat, but manages to hold his emotions in check. Keeping his face an icy mask he follows the mortal, but even the pain can't distract him from his thoughts—

_An Asgardian could have survived that fall and would have healed by now and wouldn't have hurt their ankle—nor would they have been spotted by mortals or have had their skin turn a matching blue under the frigid, icy glare of a Jotun which means only one thing, one thing, one thing—_

He is not Asgardian.


	4. Chapter 4

**a/n:** you know that feeling when a chapter writes you? it's just really easy? I FINALLY HAD ONE OF THOSE CHAPTERS! :D thank you all for your wonderful reviews-they really are the only thing that keeps me writing.

school is still getting into the swing of things, and i get out early some days. yes. yes. yes thank you. anyway.

please review :)

* * *

><p>He stands for a moment at the top of the steps and looks down towards the door below him; it's pushed open, just enough for someone to slip inside, and candle light flickers from within, sending strange shadows onto the floor leading to it. He takes a deep breath and does not break stride as he begins the stairs, passes the two stoic guards flanking the entry, and pushes into the vault.<p>

The door clacks shut behind him.

The room is lit golden from the sconces on the walls, friendly torchlight illuminating the relics nestled deeply into their little, hidden alcoves. All except for one—his eyes are drawn to it almost automatically. It sits, dull and black, on a raised pedestal at the far end of the room, slightly obscured by the imposing figure of his father. The AllFather's robes are loose, his hands pressed to his side. Thor does not move from his spot by the entryway and waits to be acknowledged. Next to him the Warlock's Eye seems to wink; he looks upon it rather fondly, flashes of days when they had saved Asgard from invasion flitting across his mind, images to take him away from the dark place he now found himself in. On his other side is the Eternal Flame and he finds his gaze drawn to it. His hands itch. He has never been one for waiting, and he cannot do so any longer. He straightens his shoulders and takes a step forward.

It echoes across the silent chamber, bouncing from wall to alcove to ground and ending, abruptly, at the metal gate that holds the Destroyer. Still his father does not move, so Thor takes another step, descending the second set of stairs, and readies his speech.

"Father, I would have words with you."

His father is shaken out of whatever reverie held him. He turns halfway, so that only his golden eye-patch is visible in the jumping light. His robes dance around his feet. "I knew as much was coming." He responds, and his voice sounds weary.

Thor falters.

"Speak, boy," Odin AllFather says into the brink of the pause, turning back to the object before him, "so I may know what is on your mind—though I can surely guess it, for it is the same thing that is on mine."

"Bring Loki back, Father." Thor stops walking next to the large block of stone, upon which rests the Tablet of Life and Time. He examines the Nordic runes printed boldly across its base and does not look at his father as he continues. "I will have need of him, when I am king."

The pause that follows is longer than the first. He hears a slight noise, like glass pushed up against metal or stone, and when he turns his attention back to his father he has to bite back a sharp retort.

For, in between his hands, held loosely before him, Odin grasps the Casket of Ancient Winters, and from deep within a small, flickering blue light seems to appear. "I have begun to wonder," the AllFather says as he steps resolutely forward, each foot seeming to expend too much energy to lift, "if I should have banished both of you—or at the very least, you in your brother's stead."

Thor's eyebrows drag heavily downward; his mouth becomes an angry slash. He itches towards his side, his hand clasping unconsciously around the space where MjoInir would normally hang. His father stops a few feet from him.

"But I banished my second, instead, for I felt he had more to learn than you—and the potential to become a great ally. Or an even greater enemy."

"Loki? My enemy?" Thor tries to hide the incredulous tone of his voice. "Father, he could not best me. Not ever."

"You needs learn to not be selfish as well!" His father snaps. "You speak of needing your brother and besting him in the same breath." He shuts his good eye with a sigh. The words hang heavy in the treasure room. "Rivalry among siblings is never in good form. Remember that."

Thor bristles, darkening at the memory now lingering amid the heavy words.

"Then give me my hammer back, father. Teach Loki his lesson, but I have learned mine—I need MjoInir."

"Indeed you do." Odin begins to walk again, towards the entrance to the treasure room and the steps leading out of the vault. "And I suspect that, as it always does, the hammer will find its way back to you in the end."

"Father, if I am to protect Asgard, I need MjoInir! Without it I am nothing!"

"Your dependence on it makes you weak." He stops at the first step, looking up at the closed door leading out of the vault. Thor has not moved, merely turned fully to face his father once more.

"So you expect me to do without it? Then I shall—"

"You shall what?" Odin roars. "Traverse the Nine Realms until you can reclaim your hammer? No, Thor Odinson, you will not leave Asgard. Your hammer will come to you when the time is right, and not a second before."

He clenches his fists. "When I am king—"

"Guards!" He is cut off by the yell. The door opens at the top of the steps, blackness on the other side. A gold-clad sentry steps silently through as the AllFather fixes his son with an icy stare. " 'T'will be a long time yet before you are king, Thor Odinson."

The guard descends the steps towards the main floor of the vault.

"I am trusting you with a most urgent mission." Odin turns, and Thor no longer notices the weary stoop of his shoulders. The guard swallows nervously, and Thor finally takes a step from the spot where he seemed to have sprouted roots thicker than that of Yggdrasil. "Father, I will do this thing."

"No. You will not."

"Father—"

"Silence! Be still for once in your life and _think_, boy." Odin's eye patch seems to glare thickly at him. He turns back to the guard. "Conceal this item on your person and deliver it, all haste, to Heimdall the Gate Keeper at the entrance to the Bifrost."

"AllFather." The guard bows respectfully, reaching forward to take the Casket from Odin's hands. Thor watches the man's own shake in the candlelight as he grasps the weapon and turns on his heels, quickly leaving the treasure room.

"Father, what are you doing?" Thor hisses, moving forward. "That was the Casket of Ancient Winters, the thing that keeps us safe from Jotunheim, and you just _handed it off_ to a mere _guard_! And to take to Heimdall? What do you plan on doing with it?"

"Something you do not yet understand."

"Then enlighten me, Father!" And for a moment he is ten again, begging for lessons in fighting; for a moment he is twelve again, trying to lift and wield MjoInir; for a moment he is a little boy, begging his father to tell him what is going on. "Please!"

"No, I cannot." Something like pain flickers behind the AllFather's eyes. He looks blankly ahead.

"You can, Father! You must trust me!"

"Not until you are grown, both in strength and spirit." He says. "No, I can not."

"Father, this is madness. Truly, you have fallen to madness."

"No." The AllFather repeats, more faintly, and Thor looks up at him sharply. "No, no, no…"

Odin sinks to the floor, heavily, collapsing on the steps, and for a moment the world stutters to a halt as Thor races towards him, skidding to a stop on the golden steps and watching for the small rise and fall of the king's chest. "Father?"

There it is—slow rise. Slow, slow, slow.

"Father?"

But he does not respond.

* * *

><p><em>He thinks he hears something coming from within the building he stands before. With the Casket in the possession of the Asgardians, now, already the ice is melting in large, pointed arrows that plummet to the frosty ground below, causing the world to look very much like a sand-building after the tide comes in. He takes a tentative step forward, and through the mindless haze of the guard chatter around him he hears it again. <em>

"_AllFather?" the nearest guard looks at him. He finds it takes him longer to focus now that he has only one eye to control. The other hurts fiercely, but he will be able to ignore it until they reach home and the healers can see to it. _

"_It is nothing of any danger." He says. "But I must check something."_

"_We will accompany you." Four of the remaining guards snap to attention, and he shakes his head. _

"_Your orders are to wait here until I come out."_

"_But AllFather, with all do respect, it could be a trap set by Laufey—"_

"_Laufey is defeated. I must check this. Remain here." He steps forward and the guards part before him like a wave. He hears it again, and just as he reaches the building a low murmur of conversation sweeps over him from behind. He pushes the door open slowly, hand unconsciously moving to grip the hilt of his spear, and then steps inside. When the door shuts, and the world fades to quiet, only the light of the moon filtering through the thin, already decaying roof lets him see what lies before him. _

_A great space, touched, as so many other places in Jotunheim, by the great battle newly fought. The ice is pitted and frayed, melting inside as it is out. He takes a tentative step forward, darkness pressing in on him from either side, and then he hears it again. _

_It is. _

_A baby cry. _

_He takes quick footsteps towards the source of the noise, coming from the floor near a round clearing of moonlight shining on the ice. There are several dead Giants, their hands and legs splayed at awkward angles like thick, ugly puppets. Their blood is so blue it is black, and it stains the floor sticky as he steps around them. The little mewling is coming from beneath the arm of a particularly small Frost Giant; it roughly resembles a female, but the body has been rendered so mangled he can no longer tell. He bends gently down, lifting the broken arm with a soft hand, whispering, "All speed to Helheim and happier places." Then he sees the source of the noise. _

_The baby is small, smaller, seemingly, than his own child newly born on Asgard. His tiny hands are clenched into fists and tears leak like crystals from his eyes. Odin bends forward, dirtying further the knees of his armor in the blood, and picks the baby gently from the floor. _

_The boy's head fits in his hand, and his body does not span the length of his forearm. A dwarf Frost Giant. He looks at the marks on the boy's face, and recognizes the symbols there. He inhales sharply._

_Laufey's son._

_He looks long at the child. The eyes open at last; the feeling of warmth caused the boy to stop crying. Red, red eyes look up at him. Odin feels something twist in his gut and, against his better nature, finds himself smiling down at the baby. _

_He knows, then, that he cannot take the child into Asgard looking as such. Instead he closes his one good eye and fights the weariness that has taken control of his limbs. He may be the AllFather, but his skills in battle were always much greater than his skills in magic. He senses the power of the realm wrapped around him like a snowy blanket; he reaches blindly for it, channels it towards his hands where the child lies. It feels like ice running up his veins. His eye, the one lost, throbs, and it is as if, though his good one is closed, he can see the threads of magic surrounding him. The icy feeling disperses, and he opens himself up to see the thing he had wrought. _

_The boy is pale and white as snow in his hands, with eyes as green and sharp as the icicles dropping down from a high, Jotunheim sky. _

_He wraps the child firmly in the folds of his winter cloak, and when he rejoins his guards they know better than to ask about the tiny tuft of black hair they see sticking up from there. _

* * *

><p>The car rattles along in silence. Jane grips the steering wheel tightly, feeling the man's presence behind her; she taps her thumbs lightly on the leather and looks sideways at Erik, who appears vaguely uncomfortable, his head bobbing against the seat. She blows her lips out in a half-sigh and glances into the rear-view mirror. Darcy is sitting in the makeshift seat across from the man, staring unabashedly, her eyebrows raised.<p>

The silence is getting uncomfortable.

She reaches for the radio but cuts back to the steering wheel halfway there, swerving slightly to avoid a rather slow Prius. The town comes into view before them.

The silence is getting really, really uncomfortable.

And she has questions—so many questions. She settles for the most mundane, because she's been told she's a bit overwhelming, and she takes one hand off the wheel to run it nervously through her hair.

"So, uh…do you have a name?"

No answer. She shifts a little, and in the mirror he's staring at his hands. His face isn't angry, it isn't cold, it's just there, polite and blank and completely uninterested. As if he senses her gaze he pulls his head upward, and glances sideways through his eyelashes; his eyes are icy, green, and full of anger.

She swerves abruptly again, nearly sending the Pinzgauer through the front window of Isabella's Diner.

"We could just call you John." Darcy remarks, continuing to stare; she places her chin in her hand, elbow on her knee, and leans forward a bit. "You know, like, John Doe."

"We aren't calling him John." Jane snaps from the front seat, and then realizes her gaffe. "We're not calling you John." She repeats.

He blinks loftily and returns to staring silently at the floor of the van. Jane sighs, pulling off towards the parking lot of their old converted car dealership, wondering how the man could look so regal in the damn hospital scrubs. She slips the car into the drive and flips the keys on the ignition, and the silence rings more deeply in her ears until Erik shoves open his door.

"Can I get a nap before we go chasing after data?" He yawns, looking at her from the driveway.

"I guess." She blows her hair up and away from her face, scrabbling down from the front seat. Her boots scrape the dusty road as she moves to the rear of the army van and throws the back door open. Darcy scrambles out quickly and ungracefully, nearly face planting onto the asphalt.

"We need more seats." She complains, dusting off her jeans. "Real seats. Less computer equipment, more real seats. I'm putting it in my contract."

"You don't have a contract." Jane feels the need to point out, the New Mexico sun tickling her arm. "You aren't obligated to be here at all."

Darcy's already moving towards the lab, where the door is open and the newspaper from yesterday sits on the kitchen table. "Actually, I am. Just not contractually obligated. But I need the credits." She says over her shoulder.

Jane might feel slightly hurt if not for the fact that a man who survived a solar storm is still hunkered in the back seat of her van. She takes a slow step forward and looks inside.

He hasn't moved, his hands clasped lightly before him, thumbs pressed against each other. Jane finds herself laughing nervously. "So I've never broken anyone out of a hospital before, that was fun."

No response.

God, it was like talking to a _wall_.

"Ha…ha. Yeah. So, uh, you want some breakfast?"

Nothing.

"Ok, then at least some better clothes. Not that," she backtracks quickly, reeling, "those aren't a good look for you. Hospital gowns. It's a good look."

Nope. Ok. Screw this.

"Look." She bends down into the back of the van and then stands straight again; she's so short her head barely brushes the roof of the Pinzgauer. On either side of her the equipment beeps comfortably. The man finally turns to meet her eyes as she folds her arms across her chest. "I can do this the easy way, or the hard way." Good cop, bad cop. Some psychologist is screaming at her from somewhere.

"Really." It's a statement. Monosyllabic, but Jane's not asking for much. His voice is like velvet, or honey, maybe, not nearly as hoarse as last night. He doesn't look up.

"Um, yes. Really." How the _hell_ did he do that? Take one word and make it sound like an insult and a death threat and a mocking little thing all in one?

"Well, we'd hate for you to hurt yourself, wouldn't we?" He does not look at her but his voice is sharper than any she has ever heard, laden and laced with sarcasm. She frowns at him, backing out of the van and into the growing New Mexico heat. The sun is getting warmer, and the pink light of dawn is fading to the clear blue of early morning.

"Shut the door behind you." She snaps over her shoulder.

* * *

><p><em>The door shuts and Frigga looks up from the book she is reading. The fire crackles merrily; the red-velvet plush chair she sits in complains heartily as she gets to her feet, placing the novel behind her. Her golden hair is loose around her face, tumbling like a waterfall from her head, and she brushes it to one side, over her shoulder, as she turns. Her back still aches from carrying Thor, and she rubs the lower of it absentmindedly as she steps forward from the bedchamber into the more personable sitting area of the master suite. <em>

_Then, a voice: "My dear."_

_She smiles widely at the figure standing in shaded darkness by the door. Her pace quickens. "You did not warn me of your return!"_

"_Indeed, I didn't." A slight pause. Then: "And now, though, I feel must warn you, it is not all in one piece." Odin AllFather steps barely into the light, so that only half of his face shows. His clothes are still the winter-ready for his journey into Jotunheim and she notices the thick, golden armor underneath. Something bulges in the upper corner of his cloak, near his shoulder. Her steps pause. "Odin," she puts her hand forward, "turn into the light."_

_He looks up at her, blue eye crystal and clear and containing more pain than it had upon his leaving. Then he turns his head slowly, oh so slowly, until the light of the torches in the sconces show the full form of his face. _

_She does not gasp. She does not betray any emotion. Instead she walks quickly until she stands directly before him and moves a soft, tender touch over the tip of his wound, which is still raw and ugly and gaping. "I am lucky I did not pay with my life." He whispers under her hand. She smiles._

"_I am lucky it was such too." She cups his cheek. "Though why you did not go to the healers straight upon your arrival is beyond me." She tilts her head. "The rugged fashion of it suits you."_

_He manages a smile at that, and she returns it. She moves to settle against his chest, whispering, "I am glad you are returned," but as she puts her head there something gives a little cry and she takes a step back quickly. _

"_By the Bifrost—"_

"_This is the reason I did not immediately turn to the healing rooms." He pulls his cloak aside and pulls, from a secure sling near his shoulder, a small, white bundle, handing it gently, as if he is afraid it will break into a million pieces, to her. She reaches forward, her mouth still open in surprise._

"_Odin, 'tis a child!"_

"_Aye." He responds steadily as she pulls aside the white cloth and looks upon the sleeping face of a boy. She tilts her head, looking down, and then ventures, "I daresay you did not find him in Asgard."_

"_No, I did not."_

"_Is he a Jotun, then?" She is long use to the power her husband wields; it does not surprise her that her could turn a Frost Giant child to an Asgardian one. _

"_Laufey's son."_

_She draws another breath and it wakes the babe in her arms. His green eyes blink up at her and then he opens his mouth in a soft cry. She bounces him into her chest, making small, hushed noises. When he quiets, she looks up. "Truly?"_

"_Yes. The markings spoke wonders."_

"_Oh, Odin," she looks down at the head of black hair. The child already is quiet, sleeping again. "We cannot abandon him."_

"_I imagined you would say as such." He smiles gently. "In fact, I was quite hoping you would."_

"_We shall have to put forth an excuse to everyone in court, to be sure," she pats the baby's back, "but that shall be easily dealt with. We shall raise him as a brother to Thor."_

"_And what shall we call our new son?" Odin whispers, placing one finger on the back of the tiny boy. Frigga regards the child with a critical eye and then turns her face back to her husband._

"_Loki. We shall call him Loki."_

* * *

><p>The material surrounding the little inlet in the bathroom is smooth and white, a cheaper, Midgardian substitute for marble or ore. There is a metal spout that, when he turns the faucet, allows for a continuous flow of cool water, and he leaves this on. His fingers do not feel the temperature change as he sticks them beneath the frigid liquid. He cups his hands, and, collecting some, splashes it over his face. It runs in little rivulets down his chin and onto his chest. He winces a little as he pushes too close to the sink, his side rubbing painfully with the thing in front of him. Then he looks in the mirror.<p>

His hair sticks up fitfully. His eyes are hard and tired. His mouth is thin and his face is pale, wanting. He sighs, reaching for more water and smoothing down the black on his head with it.

The garb the mortal girl gave him will do. They suit him better than the strange 'hospital gown' which he had been forced into most unwillingly, but they come nowhere near the craftsmanship of his Asgardian wears, which were probably occupying the bottom of some trash heap somewhere. He sighs. The shirt he has is black, and the pants are a strange, blue color. He fingers the rough material.

"_Your day will come, Loki." His mother hooks the green cape onto his shoulders and steps back. _

Loki shakes his head, wondering, faintly, at the memories his mind had lately been dredging up to the surface. He stands still for a moment and resumes looking in the mirror.

He lays out the facts, and the facts are these:

He is not Asgardian. There is a good chance he is—of the beastly, giant variety.

He is stuck on Midgard.

His brother's hammer is somewhere in the vicinity.

He leans forward, head facing the water, which is still running, hands gripping the sink. He tries to place the facts into the order of most to least important. Facts should equal a plan. He has never been in want of a plan before.

Granted, his latest plans had been going quite awry.

He knows for certain, though, as he shuts the water off with a quick, twisted motion, that he needs to retrieve Thor's hammer, if only so that he will no longer remain powerless on this stupid, hopeless world. Having a directive, now, makes him feel more like himself, even as he notices the distinct lack of magical threads connecting him to the world and the distinct lack of anything Asgardian on his person.

Hela forbid, he could pass as a mortal right now.

He opens the door to the small wash chamber and finds himself in a little tan hall with reflective floors. There are voices filtering from the main chamber and he walks calmly, stiffly, in their direction, side aching, ankle throbbing.

"It has to be a portal to another world, Erik. It has to be."

"I see your point, Jane, but I don't know if the rest of the scientific community will."

He steps into a rounded room, separated into areas by large banks of whirring, electrical equipment whose names he does not know. There is a sitting area by the door, with another sink, a table, and chairs. A kitchen, perhaps. The mortal Darcy is lounging against one of the cabinets, playing with something in her hands. She looks up at him as he enters and whistles.

"You know, for a crazy homeless person he is pre-tty cut."

He keeps his face passive, which is difficult. The other mortal, Jane, steps around a desk and comes towards him. "Just ignore her," she laughs uncomfortably. "She doesn't mean it."

"I do mean it."

"_Darcy_." Jane hisses.

"Hello." The third mortal, a man of some age with a tired look, stands and walks forward, holding out a callused hand. "I'm Erik Selvig."

Loki looks down at the proffered item.

After a moment: "You shake it." Jane whispers from next to him. He turns his gaze to her.

"I do not wish to."

"Oh, well, then." She coughs into her hand, looking annoyed and ruffled.

AllFather, but how it was easy to fool with the mortals, to shake their cages.

"How's your side, then?" Erik sticks his hand in his pocket and motions with the other towards his wound. Loki looks uninterestedly down at it. "Is it broken?"

"I do not believe so." It feels like fire. "I require no aid."

"Actually, I was planning on taking a look at it." Jane bites her lip, peering down—or rather, across, for she barely reaches his shoulder—at the bruised area. He raises one eyebrow. "Just to make sure you really didn't actually need a hospital, and weren't going to die. Or anything."

"I will inform you if I am going to die." He does need to lie down. But he's hungry—he hasn't eaten since before the coronation.

Back on Asgard.

"Right now, I would ask for food."

"You only get chatty when you want stuff, don't you?" The little mouse of a mortal crosses her arms and glares up at him. "I find that incredibly trying."

"I find your company trying as well, but I am forced into it." He looks down his nose at her, trying to ignore the pain coming from the bruise and trying to stay upright on his ankle, which he suspects is sprained. "Will you show me to an establishment that will give me sustenance? Or must I find it myself?"

She narrows her eyes at him and then turns quickly on her heels, towards the door. The other girl lingers, following with a backwards glance, and Selvig, frowning deeply, motions for him to exit first. He does, fighting a smile.

Lord, what fools these mortals be.


	5. Chapter 5

**a/n: **so again, the reviews you guys, the reviews! so amazing! thank you! they really, and i'm sorry i repeat myself on this, give me motivation to write, and i do really appreciate them, as well as the faves and the alerts. again, i'm sorry i can't respond to all personally—i only wish school weren't so time consuming. blegh.

can i have summer now?

many of you have been wondering about the jane/loki potential, and i can't say! i'm not going to spoil it either way. you'll just have to read to find out :D i only hope i can meet your guy's expectations concerning this story! i don't want to disappoint.

please review :)

* * *

><p>He suddenly finds his appetite is no longer what it was.<p>

The eggs are rubbery, the drink a dark black and completely unappealing, the fruit scattered haphazardly over the plate, each piece more bruised than the last. He holds the thin, metal folk listlessly in his hand and swallows thickly. The rest of the table is silent, except for the clatter of metal against glass. He prods at the eggs again.

"So you _aren't_ hungry?" Darcy's mouth is half-full with her meal. He takes a sharp breath through clenched teeth and places his utensil next to his plate. The quick movement jars his side and he winces.

"I find my appetite is no longer as apparent as it was." He tries the drink. It's sharp and strong and immensely bitter. He lets it slide down the back of his throat and waits for a moment to see if he will try and force it back up. When nothing happens, he takes another tentative sip.

"Oh _really_." Jane doesn't look up, just stabs at the flat-like bread on her plate, sawing violently until she has a piece which, contrary to the previous actions, she places primly in her mouth. He looks up at her, setting the cup down next to his still-full platter. She raises her eyebrows at him and continues to chew. "That's funny."

He feels the corners of his mouth tip down and he reaches again for the blackish liquid. "What is this drink?" He takes another sip. Darcy almost spits up her food.

"How could you not know what _coffee_ is?" She reaches for her own glass, which is filled to the brim with orange liquid. "That's like, an American staple." Then: "Oh my God, are you drinking it black?"

"There is no such thing where I come from." He states blandly.

"See, that's one of my questions." The mousey girl finishes her food and looks up at him across the table. Erik settles into the fourth, empty seat, his own plate piled high. "I was _going_ to wait until you got better to start asking them but seeing as you're well enough to refuse food and I saved you from being stuck in the hospital for a week—"

"I believe you caused my placement in this so called 'hospital.'" He interrupts, his slim, pale fingers reaching for the fork he laid down. She seems shaken for a moment as Darcy nods, "He's right on that."

"I—I didn't—I _grazed_ you. And you're up and walking around. Plus she tasered you! And this is beside the point—"

"You are an annoying mortal." He points his fork at her, a bit of rubbery egg dangling from one end.

He's not lying.

She makes indignant little noises ("Why do you keep calling us _mortals_?") as he chews and swallows the food, which turns to ash in his mouth. It comes nowhere near the succulent, juicy delicacies he often ate back upon Asgard. It's bland and plain and boring, rather like everything he had so far experienced on Midgard.

Including the mortal across from him.

"—are you even listening?"

"No." He forces down a few more bites and then puts his fork to the side. It hurts to chew and swallow, and though the food is base he is willing to eat it—he is hungry, after all—but the pain in his side is growing with each chew and he will have to content himself with what he managed to force down until he is further healed. He takes another small sip of the 'coffee'.

A thick, heavy silence follows, one in which he can again hear the clanking of silver on glass and the humming of the female mortal behind the counter, the old, grandmotherly one. He drinks slowly, surveying the room around him.

The tables are drab and showing their age, red upholstery shiny, raw, and ripping. The glass shows a street that is fairly vacant, but hard to make out through the big, painted letters scrawled over the clear surface.

It took him a moment, upon entering the establishment, to see that the writing was Midgardian, some dialect he had not studied on Asgard, but he had managed to decode it after several minutes of intense studying of the plastic 'menu' in front of him, along with the writing upon the window.

_Isabella's Diner_.

It seems as if their written language had failed to become more civilized, though the spoken language did contain many more nuances that when last he visited Earth. He takes another sip from his mug, only to realize with a start that it is empty. He sets it back on the table.

"So what's your name? Cause, you know, we like, need to call you something. Or we could just call you 'you'. I always do that to people whose names I don't know. Or whose names I forget."

The mortal Darcy is trying vainly to start up a conversation. The mouse, Jane, has her arms pressed firmly across her chest and is staring straight at him with drawn brows; Selvig has busied himself with his breakfast.

He rolls his fingers along the tabletop, unfamiliar material grating against his skin, and he thinks.

Lying will complicate his story, and, as much as he hates it, he needs the mortals at this juncture, as he had already admitted to himself.

In the same breath, the truth will be equally damaging. Last he recalled, he was not the most popular of the 'gods' here on Midgard.

Funny, really, how his reputation always followed him like a damned Shade.

He purses his lips.

To lie?

He looks from the rim of his plate across the table at Jane, whose light eyes are boring daggers into his skull. He raises his eyebrows and manages a sort of disdainful half-shrug, though it hurts something fierce. Selvig coughs lightly into his hand, and Darcy pushes her framed spectacles up the rim of her nose.

Or not to lie?

"I am Loki Odinson." He says at last, and he is greeted with a choking sound, a gasp, and a look of confusion, respectively.

Well. This is new.

* * *

><p><em>He raises his hand. The formal armor he did not have time to remove after the coronation is stiff and unyielding as he opens his fingers. Around him is the magic of the world, the Bifrost crackling merrily. Before him are his two sons. <em>

_ He does not know where he went so horribly wrong; cannot fathom the point of their raising which turned one to pig-headedness and the other to lies, but they stand before him now that way all the same. _

_ He is so tired._

_ Something stirs. From his eldest he cuts a single thread, and suddenly MjoInir is sailing through the air to land obediently and willingly in his own hand. Thor looks up disbelievingly, hand stretching, his eyes wide and countenance scared, as if he were a newborn foal without anything to support him. _

_ Odin shuts his good eye and pulls the hammer to his lips. The magic of the Bifrost is warm and pliant around him as he draws upon it, whispers an incantation to the metal surface—_

_ "Whosoever holds this hammer, if he be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor."_

_ His seal appears and, like tossing a ball or a feather, he sends it into the whirling vortex of the Bifrost and turns to face his second._

_ Loki is pale and thin in the light. Something like truth shines behind his green, green eyes but, selfishly, Odin is not yet ready to face questions. He looks at his boy, the high cheekbones, the black, raven hair, the pale skin, and sees not where he came from, only where he belonged._

_ Which is why he knows the next part is going to hurt the most. _

* * *

><p>"He's crazy." Erik says flatly, and Jane frowns at him from behind her computer screen. She opens up a file and watches the video from the storm, for the fourth time in as many hours, and again she makes out the tiny figure protruding from the cloud of light and coming to rest on the ground.<p>

"Why do you think he's crazy?" she asks to humor him.

"Jane, his name."

"So?" She taps a finger against the screen, watching the colors balloon out crazily. She drags the play bar backwards and watches the video again.

"Loki. Loki Odinson."

"Maybe he's a larper."

Jane looks around her computer at that; Darcy is curled in the chair at the kitchen table across from Erik, her iPod in her hands. She glances up vaguely and sees the strained, confused expression on Jane's face—she holds up her hands, shaking her head. "What? I don't actually do it."

"What is 'it', exactly?" Jane tries to keep her tone in check, but it's hard, frustrating to have to deal with Darcy's eccentricities and Erik's disbelief and her own notion that she was so extremely _close_ to something all in one instant.

And she thought her break-up had been an emotional rollercoaster.

"Live action role player. Duh."

"I doubt he's one of those." Jane puts her chin in the palm of her hand and watches the video again.

"Role playing aside," the chair scrapes away on the concrete floor as Erik scoots it back, and she listens as his measured steps cross towards the bank of computers she is working with, "I don't trust him."

"Well, he's the only one that can tell us what it was like to be in that anomaly, so he's staying."

"Jane, he's been nothing but rude since he got here, and hardly seems the type to just—spew out information at a moment's notice. Or answer any your questions, for that matter."

"He told us his name." She points out.

There, right there in the video, the cloud pattern changed briefly—that was the point when the constellations moved, shifted, dispersed—

"Which brings me back to my point!" Erik bends down next to her, drawing her attention away from the computer screen. "Jane, he's not safe."

Jane looks exasperatedly towards his face, the lines there, the bags under his eyes, the serious turn of his mouth. She glances briefly at Darcy, but the girl is offering no help, having put her headphones resolutely in her ears; she looks out the window.

Her trailer is parked outside, shining brightly in the afternoon sun, the metallic surface gleaming silver like some extraterrestrial ship. She thinks about the person lying inside—the key to all her questions.

Loki Odinson.

She bites her lip.

He had barely made it to the car after eating practically _nothing _at Isabella's. On the short trip back to the lab he had hardly moved, but Jane caught it—the barest twitch of an eye every time they jarred over the road. A walk that would have taken them five minutes turned into a drive that, with afternoon traffic picking up, with people heading out to bigger cities for work and such, took them fifteen, but there was no way he could have made it on foot.

They had gotten back to the lab and she had briefly considered putting him up on the kitchen chairs—just pushing two together and throwing a blanket over it and calling it quits—but she had ended up leading him inside her cramped little trailer and showing him the bed.

"I guess this will have to be sufficient." He said in that velvet voice of his, to which she responded by throwing the ice pack she had been preparing for his side dangerously close to his head.

That had been nearly four hours ago.

She rubs her face with her hand and pushes the rolling office chair backwards, standing. Erik mirrors her movements.

"I'll admit that…he doesn't seem the most...stable of people."

"Jane."

"Erik." She crosses her arms and looks up at him. "I'm so close I can taste it. I can't let this one slip from my fingers." She frowns, looking to the side. "Like all the other ones."

"Plus he's hurt." Darcy nods her head at the white plastic table, light earphones stark against the dark, dark brown of her hair. She twists the motion control pad of her iPod and shrugs up at Jane and Erik. "We can't just leave him somewhere, dump him off at some psychiatric ward."

"We should have left him in the hospital. We _could_ have let him in the hospital." Erik lets out a long, long breath, shaking his head. He heads to the small kitchen sink and the cheap, metal coffee maker there. "I think we're going to regret this, Jane."

She looks at her metal trailer, squinting through the glare of the sun.

It's one of the few times she disagrees with Erik.

Even though he's usually right.

* * *

><p><em>The door opens easily before him on silent, invisible hinges, and the room beyond is lit a dull gold from a roaring fire. He takes a large, heady sip of mead and, having finished his mug, throws it rather heedlessly into the flickering flames with a cry of, "Another!"<em>

_ The fire licks the height of the chamber and he lets the heat grace him reassuringly for a moment, MjoInir grasped firmly in his left hand, extending easily from his grip like part of his arm. He breathes deeply, victory racing like adrenaline through his body, and bypasses the fire to head down the fabric lined hall leading to the coronation room. From behind one of the draperies of silk he spies two long, curved horns, and the form of his brother soon follows. Thor steps up beside him, and, for a moment, just stands, staring straight ahead. Loki glances sideways at him, a slight grin playing around his face. _

_ "Nervous, brother?" _

_ He laughs heartily, turning. "Have you ever known me to be nervous?"_

_ The grin stills hangs around Loki's lips and he gives a bare shrug of his shoulder. "Well, there was that time in Nornheim."_

_ "That was not nerves, brother. That was the rage of battle." He explains patiently._

_ "Ah, I see." Loki looks down at his feet, eyebrows raised. _

_ "How else could I have fought my way through one-hundred warriors and pulled us out alive?"_

_ He watches as his brother's face folds into a slight, barely there frown. "As I recall, I was the one who veiled us in smoke to ease our escape."_

_ He laughs again at this, the corridor stretching endlessly before him, his mouth dry and calling for mead. "Yes. Some do battle, others just do tricks."_

_ There is silence; from one of the servant's passages, emerging between two of the dark draperies, a portly man comes bearing a silver-lined cup. He is about to reach for it when something hisses. The man drops his tray quickly with a muffled yell, and Thor watches as snakes tinged blue and black slither from the opening and onto the floor. He glances sideways and catches his brother's smirk, then hears his dry laughter._

_ "Loki." He chides, looking mournfully down at the fallen goblet. "Now that was just a waste of good wine."_

_ "Oh, it was just a bit of fun. Right, my friend?" Something shifts in the air and the snakes vanish as quickly as they had come in a flash of greenish-white light. The servant bows his head, a shocked look still residing on his face, and he bends quickly to retrieve the fallen item before backing hurriedly away into the darkness. A slight chuckle from both the brothers lightens the air, then silence. _

_ He sees before him the door leading to his destiny and, loathe as he would be to admit it, something akin to a—a tenseness is coiled in the pit of his stomach. Another servant follows the path of the last and presents him with his winged ceremonial helmet, and, as soon as he reaches forward to grasp it in his hand, the only thing that becomes apparent is the joy he feels at finally, finally becoming king. He rubs his thumb over the smooth metal. _

_ "Nice feathers."_

_ Thor smiles widely. "You don't really want to start this again, do you, cow?"_

_ "I was being sincere."_

_ "You are incapable of sincerity."_

_ "Am I?" _

_ "Yes."_

_ Loki looks straight at him, emerald eyes steady. "I've looked forward to this day as long as you have. You're my brother and my friend. Sometimes I'm envious, but never doubt that I love you."_

_ Thor had rarely heard his brother speak such words. He claps his hand on the edge of the horned metal helmet and pats it once, twice. "Thank you."_

_ "Now give us a kiss."_

_ "Stop it." He warns with a smile, pushing his brother slightly. He falls back to standing straight, MjoInir in one hand and his helmet in the other. Something tangible hangs in the air, something he can't quite place. He suddenly itches to be moving, to be doing something, anything, battle preferably—instead he says:_

_ "Really, how do I look?"_

_ "Like a king."_

* * *

><p>The throne is too big. He is dwarfed by it, the golden armrests ornate and caving up on either side of him. The room itself is too big, sepulchral and echoing like a tomb. The spear that he holds in his hand is too big, lanky and awkward.<p>

Nothing fits.

He stares straight ahead; through the balconied opening all of Asgard spreads like a landscape painting, picturesque in the dying sunlight. He re-grips Gugnir, but still the weapon feels nothing like his hammer. He cants his head and dips it into his waiting hand. Footsteps echo down the hall.

"Thor! Thor, we came as soon as we heard—"

Sif practically sprints into the throne room, her boot-clad feet straining for traction on the cool marble floors as she spies his position. Her eyes go wide; he notices that, though she is wearing her armor, her hair spills loose and dark around her face, as if she rushed from her chambers in an extreme hurry. Behind her tumble the Warriors Three in the comical fashion he has oft come to associate with them.

Sif bows, holding one clenched fist over her heart. Fandral, Hogun, and Volstagg, coming to the same realization as the lady, silently do the same. He lets Gugnir clatter to the floor and stands abruptly.

"My friends, you need not ever bow to me." His voice is strained.

He wants normalcy. He wants to turn back time and rethink things, but not even the oldest magic could accomplish that feat.

Sif straightens. "You are king now." Her lips quirk. "We only follow protocol."

"Yes, my good fellow," Fandral, looking completely recovered from his time in Jotunheim, rubs his mustache vainly, grinning up at him, "you must flaunt this position. It is the only way we shall get all the most glorious beauties from the Nine Realms into Asgard's halls."

Thor steps from the vaulted platform and moves to the empty space. As he passes the two guards flanking the throne he motions with his hand. "Leave us."

They obey and then there is nothing but the peaceful sounds of evening to keep them company. Volstagg pats his stomach absentmindedly.

"I am not truly king, anyway." He walks to the balcony to look over the city below him. His friends follow, and Sif gives a snort.

"In all the ways that count you are."

"Only until the AllFather awakens."

"I've heard it was sudden, this time." Hogun speaks deliberately, and Thor stops at the railing, hands gripping the stone, hair blown back in a gentle breeze. He feels heat and Sif is standing beside him, looking up sadly. "Yes, Thor."

He does not speak his mind, which is that he _must _believe his father will awaken from the Odinsleep, for if he does not he might go insane. Instead he changes the subject abruptly.

"I guess this means no more adventures, for the moment."

"I think a good adventure would be a large feast, in celebration of your achievements." Volstagg is combing his red beard as absentmindedly as he had earlier patted his stomach. Thor watches as his friend frowns, then plucks, from the depths of red, a whole grape. Sif blanches beside him as the man pops it gleefully into his mouth.

"That is one of the most disgusting things I have ever seen in the entirety of my life." Fandral says blankly.

The laughter that follows is soothing. Normal, almost. Thor stops chuckling, his hand hanging empty at his side. He wishes to fight, to train on the practice grounds, but knows that doing so will only make the loss of MjoInir more acute, so he keeps his mouth shut. Sif turns and hoists herself up on the railing, fearlessly uncaring about the large fall that would await her—and the death that would welcome her—should she tip backwards off of it. Her armor clacks welcomingly and he fights the urge to pull her down.

"But Thor, now that you are king." She stops, her speech jilted. The Warriors Three are silent, as if they can already guess what she is going to say—in a way, he can too. "Now that you are king, are you going to bring Loki back? End his banishment?"

"I know that you have never been fond of my brother, Sif." Thor looks deliberately at her. "Nor, for that matter, have you three."

"No, we have not. The bugger is damned annoying." Fandral shifts a little so the setting sun is not directly in his eye.

"And I do not trust him as far as I can throw him." Sif leans dangerously far back.

"I think you could throw him rather far." Volstagg points out, eyebrows raised.

"The point is," her voice gets louder as she talks over her friend, "I know how much he means to you. Now that you are king, you can end his banishment."

"I want to. I wish to." Thor begins to pace, back and forth, back and forth, his steps heavy and dark. "But Father told me to think."

"Heaven forbid, that is a dangerous past time." Fandral drawls.

"I know."

"But you know that the AllFather did it for a reason." Hogun crosses his arms and looks pointedly at him. "So you wish to trust his judgment."

"That he knew what was best for Loki, yes." Thor frowns. "Though, I do plan on—"

There are frantic footsteps that break his thought. He stops pacing and turns towards the noise. Sif jumps down from her position and the Warriors Three step forward almost exactly in unison.

The guard that emerges is out of breath, helmet askew, face red. His frown deepens as the man huffs forward.

"My….liege…" He holds a fist over his heart and bows.

"Speak!" Thor bellows, something akin to nerves—but not really nerves, he never has nerves—coiling in the pit of his stomach.

"There was…on one of the paths leading into the palace…evidence…" The man still pants and Thor finds his patience is waning.

"Quickly, man!"

"Frost giants, my lord."

His anger boils to a head.

Then, unwilling and unusual and unwelcome: fear.


	6. Chapter 6

**a/n: **thank you reviewers/favers/alerters!

please review :)

* * *

><p>It is night when he awakens. Around him the unfamiliar sounds of the world come together in a cacophonous symphony. Something ticks. Another thing hoots. There is a drip coming from the front of the metal pod. He gathers himself and sits upright, the ice that the mouse had prepared for him earlier falling to the floor with a wet sound. He gropes for it in the dark, hand meeting a bag filled with water long-since warmed. He picks it up.<p>

The blankets are twisted around him in a manner that suggested nightmares, though he can't remember any of them now. Instead they float in a hazy sort of fog, something blue and cold but then a rainbow of colors, fire, something, something—he can't reach them and gives up trying.

His side still aches, and the bag he now holds in one hand does nothing to ease the pain. He sets it next to him, pulling off blankets sticky with sweat and tossing them in a heap on the floor. The shapes of the sleeping area are starting to make themselves apparent. A sink. A small door. Lots of square-ish piles that hearken themselves to stacks of books. The only light filters through the far window, round and small; it is the moon, pale, white, nothing like Asgard's, and whatever sleep still clings to him is shaken off at the thought.

He stands, and almost immediately has to sit back down as his ankle gives a sharp twang of pain. He takes a moment, shuts his eyes, and tries again, more slowly. This time it holds his weight. He reaches back for the useless bag of water; as he stands in the growing pool of moonlight he looks at it between his hands, sloshing the liquid one way and then the other.

A thought forms.

He focuses on it. His eyebrows are drawn together, his mouth a thin line; in the light the water glints like a dagger, making the outline of his feet seem blurry and opaque through the thin bag. He feels his mouth turning to a frown as he continues to stare steadily. Something stirs, something completely foreign and unlike any magic he has ever willingly touched, something that starts in the deep pit of his stomach or maybe the soles of his feet or the pads of his fingers, or maybe all three at once, and then there is nothing but cold cold cold—

The bag in his hands expands, unfamiliar material ripping with a soft whisper as the water solidifies quickly into a thick block of crystalline ice. His eyebrows shoot up in disbelief and his mouth opens slightly until the reality of what just occurred hits him like a blow to the gut and he finds himself tipping backward. The frozen water in his hands flies upward in a crooked arc and then hits the floor. It shatters with a laugh, muffled faintly by the remains of whatever held it. He staggers on his ankle and hits the edge of the bed, straight-locked knees giving way underneath him. He collapses onto the floor, feet nudging the ice, legs spanning a ridiculous amount of the space in the small area, back resting against the lip of the bed behind him.

For a moment, he just stares.

His heart is hammering.

His side flares up from the fall.

Still, he stares.

Then he looks up, and for the first time on Midgard he lets his façade fall, and with all the pain of thousands of years of denial and lies he looks up at the roof of the metal pod above him, imagines the sky through it, and he screams, "_Why didn't you tell me?_"

No one answers. He chokes out something halfway between a sob and a cough, dropping his head into his hands.

Take his power. Take his Asgardian power. Leave the monster. Leave the beast. Don't touch the Jotun blood.

He is alone.

* * *

><p><em>He knows well that he should be down preparing for the coronation but he lingers in his chambers doing inconsequential things. He places the books he had scattered out to get him through the sleepless night before meticulously back in their places. The parchment he rolls and does the same. His bed is still a twisted pile of sheets and blankets, as the servants had not yet come; he stands before it for a moment, chin in his hand, wondering if he should try his own hand at making it. <em>

_ Or magic it made._

_ The door opens without preamble, and he does not look up. "Brother, you needs be downstairs more than I at the moment."_

_ Thor is the only one who storms into rooms unannounced. Loki smirks, because it would be so like his brother to be late for his own coronation. _

_ "I believe he is getting a drink, to quench his thirst."_

_ He turns his head. His mother is standing in the doorway, hands clasped before her, a playful smile on her face. "Mother—" he starts, twisting full around; he stops as she holds up one of her hands, thin and graceful like his own. _

_ "I came to check on you." She steps into his room and shuts the door. "I did not see you in the hall."_

_ "I was," he motions back to the bed, and as he does so the sheets pull themselves tight and straight, the pillows rearrange themselves in a neat line, "making my bed."_

_ "Oh, really?" She is still smiling; he knows that she can see right through him. He could never effectively lie to his mother. "Are you sure you are not stalling?"_

_ "That is ridiculous."_

_ "Not really, no."_

_ "I'm not the one getting crowned King of Asgard, Mother." He steps towards her. "That would be Thor. I have no nerves. I merely wanted my room to be in order for when I returned to it later this night."_

_ "Oh, my boy." Her smile turns soft, and he finds himself looking to the side, feeling very much like a child again. He fights the urge to rub his eye. "Do not be jealous of your brother."_

_ "I am not." _

_ "You have many qualities it will take Thor millennia to come to possess." The diamonds on her collar twinkle as she comes through the sunlight spilling from his balcony. "But I understand that this coronation will be painful for you."_

_ "I do not wish to be king." He exhales. It's partially true. _

_ He would like it for the recognition, in any case._

_ "We all wish to be king at some point in our lives." She turns to look at the rising sun. He stares at her steadily, one eyebrow raised. She glances at him, then gives a little motion towards herself. "Or queen."_

_ "Not I." He begins to walk towards the lake of green fabric sitting in an undignified heap on his floor. He reaches for the silky material. Upright it spills to the ground like a waterfall._

_ "Loki," she says to his back, "I believe you are destined for great things."_

_ "Yes, well, you seem to be the only one who thinks so." He can't help but sound bitter. He hates betraying emotion but the resentment leaks into his speech like a poison. _

_ "Your father agrees with me."_

_ "And yet here he is, crowning Thor the Valiantly Pig-Headed." He fiddles with one side of his cloak. _

"_Your day will come, Loki." His mother hooks the green cape onto his shoulders and steps back. He turns to face her._

_ "But not today." He whispers softly. _

* * *

><p>He moves directly to the Treasure Room, Sif keeping pace beside him, a determined look gracing her features. Gugnir tips towards the marble floor as they race around the last turn at a sprint, coming to the top of the stairs leading down to the vault. On either side darkness stretches—the bowels of Asgard, empty and bland and full to the brim with shadows. He takes the steps two at a time, heart pounding, because at the bottom the golden doors have been ripped from their hinges, bent and crumpled like old paper, and the light that flickers beyond is dim and looks to be tinged blue. He gives a wordless cry and tumbles into the Treasure Room.<p>

It is empty.

"Damn." He throws Gugnir to the floor in his anger; it reverberates with the noise up and down its shaft before clattering to a halt. Beside him Sif slows, scrutinizing the alcoves.

"Nothing seems amiss."

"No, what they were looking for is gone already." He clenches his fist and points in the direction of the empty Casket pedestal at the far end of the room, but his anger grips him, mighty, formidable, and with a yell he throws his hand into the nearest wall. The stone buckles like clay, cracks fissuring out from the impact point, and his knuckles are raw and red as he pulls back.

"The Casket again? I do not understand." She bends down, scratching at a bit of melting frost with the tip of her staff. He can see it, layered like footsteps towards the far end of the room, the only sign besides the broken doors than any beasts were ever here.

"Well, empty, then?" Fandral is at the top of the steps, slowing, barely panting. "Seems we ran all this way for nothing."

"They could still be in the palace." Hogun nears and Thor turns to look at him, reaching down for Gugnir.

"Lead a guard to search for them. By the markings here I would gauge no more than two." His voice is heavy with anger, thick and almost unmanageable; he finds it hard to get the words past his throat. "Take Fandral and Volstagg with you."

"My liege." Hogun inclines his head and turns. Fandral makes a muffled noise of annoyance as they move back the way they came, passing the wrecked doors. It is only now, as his adrenaline fades, that Thor can make out the broken, crumpled forms of two more guards, holed up behind the twisted metal. He resists the urge to send his fist into the wall again.

"W—wait!" He hears from the hall above. "Wait, I just got here—"

"Come Volstagg, we are on a hunt."

"I cannot be expected to run this much!"

Then all is silent.

Sif has moved to examine the empty podium where the Casket should sit. She runs a finger along its edge and looks questioningly upward. "You hardly seem worried, so I won't be. But where is it?"

"I would have words with Heimdall." He says by way of response, his hand clenched so tightly around Gugnir he feels his nails biting into his palm. He turns and begins walking.

"Heimdall? But what has he to do with the Casket of Ancient Winters?" She hurries forward to match his long, heavy-booted strides. The darkness outside of the vault is cooling. He reaches the top of the stairs and finds a small contingent of guards coming from the depths of the palace.

"Watch the Treasure Room." He snaps. They obey, quickly marching past him.

"Thor!" Sif stops, her voice annoyed. He turns to face her.

"We must go to Heimdall."

"_You_ must first explain things to me." She crosses her arms, her hair tumbling around her shoulders, making her look truly like war.

Or a valkyrie.

He shudders. Sif, a valkyrie?

Odin have mercy.

"My father," he stumbles a little on the word, "my father, before the Odinsleep claimed him—he—he took the Casket, and sent it with a guard to Heimdall."

"So it is presumably not in Asgard any longer?" Her astonishment is plain on her face. "But why?" Her voice fades. "That is the Jotun's most powerful weapon! To send it, unguarded—"

"I do not _know_, Sif—" He extends his hands, stepping towards her, frustrated. "—You think I _knew_ what plans my father had? I did not." He finds he is out of breath but doesn't quite know why. She's incredibly close now, looking up at him with her clear, dark eyes. Gugnir hangs limply at his side. He can only stare.

"Thor," she seems about to reach up, to speak, but at that moment a tremendous yell echoes from the throne room. She starts back. "Was that—"

"Volstagg. Quickly!"

The sounds of battle reach their ears long before they enter the cavernous space. Shouts, the clang of metal on metal, his life's blood, his symphony, and suddenly, as he rounds the final corner to come upon the scene before him, all doubt is erased. All fear. There is nothing but himself and the Frost Giants that need killing—he crashes into the nearest one with a tremendous roar, Gugnir cutting a sharp swatch through the blue skin, the beast rearing back in a howl.

"A bit more than two, don't you think?" Fandral pants as he swings by him.

More like six.

Loki had always been the better tracker.

"More of a challenge for me, then!" He laughs, because this, this is living—one of Hogun's throwing blades sings past his ear, embedding itself deeply into the red eye of the nearest Giant, and he rips Gugnir from its grip in the thigh of the beast and whirls, ready to face the nearest opponent. He sees, takes aim, and throws the golden lance in one smooth motion, and it sails, straight, true, until it hits the nearest obstacle, the lower back of a Jotun. The beast lets loose an unearthly cry of rage.

Then he realizes something as he watches the monster rip the golden spear from its back and turn around, cantilevering like a wild animal—

Gugnir is not MjoInir.

Gugnir will not return to him.

He curses under his breath as the beast charges towards him; he tries to prepare for the blow, but the physical pain as the giant fist connects with his stomach is enough to make the eyes roll back into his head. He hits the corner of the throne, drawing blood, which runs crimson down his forehead. Blackness eats at his vision and he tries to grin, because that is what one does when facing death—

The red eyes are upon him—

"To Hel with you!" Sif's voice is loud in his ears and the beast falls heavily to the ground, inches from his foot. He staggers upright, blinking the red from his vision.

"Are you alright, my friend?" Volstagg pants heavily. Thor, saying nothing, notices with some shock that the Warriors Three plus one Lady Sif were arranged in a half-moon around him to face the last remaining Frost Giant.

In all his years, this had never happened.

In all his years, he had never needed to be protected.

He looks down at his open hands, blank and empty. Then he pulls his head up, straight into the eyes of the last monster, towards the thing he hated most in the world, and he springs forward, practically ripping Fandral's sword from the man's hands and charging through their protective line. The metal fits easily between the monster's ribs as he thrusts in, up, and then out. the beast falls to the floor. When he turns Sif is frowning deeply at him and Fandral is looking less than pleased at having his weapon stolen. Thor throws back the nondescript blade and reaches for Gugnir.

"Come, to Heimdall." He doesn't bother to explain.

He can barely stand the feeling of their gazes on his back as he turns away.

* * *

><p><em>"Brother, we should not be here."<em>

_ "Relax, Loki, it's just a bit of fun."_

_ "Father would not like it."_

_ "You are mistaken. He would award our bravery." _

_ "There is nothing brave about sneaking into the Treasure Room." Loki frowns, shaking his hand repeatedly at his side. "I have never used concealing magic before. It clings."_

_ Thor glances back at his baby brother and, sure enough, sees that his right hand has yet to materialize. Instead, he can see straight through to the ground. _

_ "That is why swords and weapons are better."_

_ "Are not." Loki snaps, and his hand fades back into existence with a hint of light green. "We would never had made it past the guards if not for my magic—"_

_ "Look at this!" He ignores his brother, who likes to speak prettily and lengthily, and finds his gaze drawn to a large, square hammer, balanced precariously atop a worn, weather-beaten stone. "Have you ever seen anything like it?"_

_ "It is MjoInir." Loki comes to stand beside him. Thor looks down at his little brother, small hands clenched in tight fists at his side. Bright green eyes meet his own and he catches a deep frown. "Don't you ever listen to Father's lectures?"_

_ "No. Why listen when you can just act?" He steps forward, closer to the hammer. Beside him his brother rolls his eyes. _

_ "Don't touch it, Thor."_

_ "Don't be a baby, Loki."_

_ "I'm not a baby."_

_ "Yes, you are." He makes a face over his shoulder, watching as his little brother crosses his lanky arms and looks to the side. Then he turns again to face the weapon before him. Slowly, ever so slowly, he reaches out a hand. "Besides, what use is a weapon if it never gets used?"_

_ His fingers fold around the hammer. He looks back at Loki with a confident grin and then heaves—_

_ And heaves again—_

_ Once more—_

_ Loki's laughter, light and mocking, reaches his ears. He ignores it, angrily placing his other hand around the grip. Bracing a foot against the base of the pedestal, he throws all his weight into levering the hammer away from the stone. _

_ When he is spent and done trying, sullen and pouting, Loki reaches up to pat his shoulder with a small hand. _

_ "Do not fret, brother. Maybe the weapon is just too great for you."_

_ He runs away too quickly for Thor to throw the punch he wanted to, laughing like a maniac. _

* * *

><p>Jane bites the felt-tipped marker between her teeth, trying to ignore the steady tingling coming from her feet, hunched as she is on the floor of the lab. Spread beneath her on the concrete are two long charts, star charts from the night before. She marked each in a steady hand, one 'Earth,' the other 'Unknown.'<p>

She traces the points of light in the latter once more, but is unable to recognize a single similarity. She sighs, rubbing her eyes and pushing her hair back, fatigue finally catching up, and quickly, too. She pushes her neck tiredly straight and turns to peer towards the kitchen, to contemplate whether getting up to make more coffee was worth it, but something black is blocking her vision, steady and unmoving, and she tips back with a yell, her heart jumping into overdrive, the pen flying out of her grip. She lands in a heap on the floor.

"God, what the—" She takes a deep shuddering breath, pushing herself back upright and using her free hand to pat her chest reassuringly. Her heart still pounds forward at an unhealthy speed. "How long were you standing there? God, you scared me!"

"Not my intention, I assure you." Loki Odinson steps a little further away from the door, barely making his way into the light of the one lamp she left on, the one pulsating a soft yellow from the kitchen. "Though the results are not unfavorable." He grins icily.

She glares up at him, reaching for her pen in the darkness. She finds it and places it carefully on top of the nearest chart, where it lays stark and dark against the white computer paper. Then she stands.

"I just let you use my bed for six hours. The least you could do is be decent."

"I am hardly ever decent." He says this rather seriously. She watches as he limps over to the kitchen table and folds himself into the nearest chair.

He's so tall.

And he looks, for the first time, shaken. Mussed hair. Dark circles under half-lidded eyes, shirt twisted from sleep.

There is a long, heavy silence. She jumps over the charts and heads towards the coffee maker on the kitchen counter, turning it on and pouring in the grounds. It shudders to life with a soft noise, like a cat purring, and she turns back to stare at him as she waits patiently for her caffeine boost.

"Why are you up?"

"I awoke and required more," he pauses, something around his eyes twisting, "ice." He finishes lamely, tipping his head back over the top of the chair. She crosses her arms.

"Well, get it yourself, then. It's in the fridge."

He lifts himself upright at this, one eyebrow raised incredulously.

"The fridge." The smell of coffee is beginning to reach her nostrils and she inhales deeply, feeling somewhat better despite the frown that is beginning to apply itself firmly to her face as the man still does not move from his seat. "I am not your house maid," she snaps, tiredness eating away at her good nature and common sense, "it's in the fridge."

Still, nothing. The man leans a little forward, draping his arms over his knees and looking up.

"Ok, seriously. Stop." Jane pushes her hair out of her eyes, somewhat startled by the complete lack of recognition the word garnered in his eyes. She turns abruptly to the coffee maker, reaching blindly for a mug on the shelf next to her. She finds she is beginning to talk at a rapid pace.

Erik always tells her she does this when she can't explain something right away and is trying to connect the dots.

"I don't get you. It's like you really aren't from this world. I mean, ok, not _everyone_ has a fridge but a _lot _of people do, and you didn't know what coffee was, and the car looked like it practically gave you a heart attack the first time you—ok, bad example, because Darcy made me hit you, but still." She pauses to take a breath. Then:

"So, who are you?" Her hand grips the mug tightly as she pours the black liquid inside. When she is finished she turns slowly to face him, and finds his piercing, green eyes staring steadily and rather blankly back at her. "...Really?"

"Patience, Jane Foster." He says at last, his deep voice making her name sound a lot more exciting than it actually was. "Your irritating questions and mundane observations are not helping my injuries. At all."

She takes a deep gulp of her coffee to avoid saying anything she will regret later, because she has been told she does that, too. It burns down her throat and she smacks her lips once, tongue screaming in protest, before hooking the nearest kitchen chair with her foot and pulling it towards her, collapsing into it. She swirls the liquid and looks to the side, out the big, clear glass windows and towards the night sky beyond.

This man was _impossible_ and an _ass_ and she knows she needs him for her research but it is so damn _hard_ to attempt civility when he was nothing but demanding and whining and—

"I will answer your questions, soon enough. Odin knows you have enough to fill a novel."

She looks up, startled, to find he is eying her wryly.

"But now, I require ice."

She raises an eyebrow at him. He blanches visibly, then:

"…please."

* * *

><p>"<em>Thor Odinson. You have trained hard in preparation for this day. The might hammer, MjoInir, forged in the heart of a dying star, has chosen you as its wielder. As such, you know that it has within it the capability to both destroy immensely—and create immeasurably."<em>

_Loki shifts uncomfortably. His brother kneels before the AllFather in the throne room, the light coming from the torches, the night beyond dark and thick. He looks to the side, observing, quietly, carefully._

_Sif's eyes are shining. Her emotions are plain on her face. Her golden hair is pulled back in graceful curls and he fights the urge to roll his eyes._

_ Maybe later, for a bit of fun, he'll dye that hair black, like his own. Or a dark brown. Something plain. He chuckles at the thought._

_ Frigga is smiling reservedly, but her eyes keep flickering towards him. He shakes the mischief from his thoughts and tries to respond in kind, but across the great steps leading up to the throne he imagines it comes out looking more as a grimace. _

_ Fandral is examining his reflection studiously in the shine of Volstagg's chest plate, and the larger man is too busy trying to ignore the quiet sounds of food being laid out in the next room over to notice. Hogun is silent. Grim, as always._

_ He disliked all of them, but he disliked Hogun the least. Fandral was too vain, Volstagg much too greedy, Sif too in love with Thor_—_Hogun seemed the most practical. With a sigh he turns back to the ceremony. _

_ "Do you, Thor Odinson, accept the weapon MjoInir as a tool to create and a means to protect Asgard?"_

_ "I do."_

_ "Then take it, and protect your kingdom."_

_ Loki's hand twitches; he bites his tongue._

_ Magic could protect Asgard much more thoroughly than MjoInir ever could._

_ He sighs, clasping his hands before him, trying to muster up more happiness. His brother turns, raising his weapon high above him, and the first eyes the blue ones meet are his own green ones. _

_ Despite the turmoil within him, the smile he gives feels genuine._

_ For that, he is grateful._

* * *

><p>The New Mexico air hits him like a blanket as he steps out into it, the metal door shutting loudly behind him. The sky feels an oppressive presence. He waits underneath the lip of the building, looking back inside at the mouse-like mortal whose head rests on the table.<p>

She is sleeping, fully.

The ice in his hand is already melting, but it is still cold—he pushes it closer to his flaming side but he can't seem to feel it. He turns his face towards the night angrily.

He's standing like that when he sees it, in the distance, a faint light that catches his eye—

Deep, heavy clouds swirl off past the town, well out in the desert. There is a flash of blue light, cracks of what could be thunder—

He starts towards it, almost subconsciously, his feet carrying him out onto the gravel drive, his ankle giving a twinge of protest—

In the distant, barely visible, a streak, like a falling star.


	7. Chapter 7

**a/n:** hey guys, sorry it's kinda late. it's been difficult to write. it's just hard with school and things. thank you for your continued interest, though, and please read and review :)

* * *

><p>Jane wakes up roughly, suddenly, her elbow sliding off the plastic table and her chin crashing into her chest. She groans, stretching back, arms popping, neck aching. The mug of coffee from the night before is still sitting before her, the brown liquid lukewarm. She rubs her eyes, the sun pouring in from outside and painting the dull concrete floor a slate gray, and pushes to her feet, chair scraping. She glances around.<p>

The lab is empty.

"No." Her voice is raw and hoarse with sleep but her heart is beginning to pound as she sidesteps around the white chair, foot catching on the leg, nearly tripping. "No."

The door yields easily to her wild hands and she flies out onto the front drive, boots struggling on the gravel for traction. She hears behind her, "Oh, hey, you're up," and, out of the corner of her eye, spies Darcy huddled in a lawn chair in front of the building, a mug between her hands, "I didn't want to come in and wake you—"

"You should of!" Jane snaps as she pounds to her trailer and throws open the door. She wants to be wrong. She wants so desperately to be wrong.

Empty.

"Damn it!" She kicks the nearest cabinet and it shuts, then pops back open loudly. She surveys the space: something shiny like plastic is on the floor; the blankets are in a twisted heap on the bed. She moves forward, because they vaguely resemble the shape of a person, but maybe she's just wishing too hard, and she knows that wishes are entirely unscientific and childish—

Her hand smashes into the pile and meets no resistance. There's a soft knock on her door and suddenly Darcy is there, letting in more sunlight, a frown on her face. "Jane, what's going on?"

"Have you seen Loki?"

"Uh, no? Should I have?"

She turns slowly, in a dignified manner, to face her dark bed sheets and twisted duvet cover. Then she falls heavily forward and gives a shout of frustration into the fabric.

"You really need to get more sleep. Seriously. Or maybe medication. Have you ever seen a psychiatrist?"

"I let my most important piece of evidence walk away." She turns sideways, fighting the urge to continue to lie there limply. "Walk away."

"He can't have gone far." Darcy fiddles absentmindedly with the day-old cereal bowl in the sink, then riffles through the first couple of cabinets. "I mean, he's hurt. You checked the lab, right?"

"It's empty." She feels exhausted. She sits up. Her eyes are heavy. "Every where's empty." She looks up hopefully. "Where's Erik?"

"Not with Loki, if that's why you're asking." Darcy frowns. "We were waiting for you to wake up. He went to the post office."

"No." She lets it drift and roll around her mouth for a moment. When she looks back up at Darcy she can't help but feel angry, irrationally so. She takes a deep breath. "And he said he would answer my questions, too. What a joke."

"Come on, Jane," Darcy turns and begins to head back outside. "It's not like he was your prisoner. That would be illegal. I'm pretty sure it would be illegal. Not that it would be bad, having him as a prisoner, because he's like, super hot. But it would be very Stephen King of you."

"I know, I know." The heavy air hits her hard in the stomach, and her eyes water against the bright, sudden sun. She mumbles, "So close, so far, and all that."

She looks down the main thoroughfare towards the horizon, fighting back the bitter wave of disappointment.

* * *

><p><em>"Brother! Hurry up!"<em>

_ "I'm coming, I'm coming." He scrambles up the steep incline, his nails clawing into the exposed dirt and roots, looking for purchase. On his right is the golden outer wall of the palace, that, though beautiful, was absolutely no help when climbing the arduous cliffs next to its face. _

_ There was something to be said about Asgardian craftsmanship when the wall appeared to be one continuous, smooth mass of bullion metal. _

_ "You're so slow." Thor is tapping his foot. "How do you expect to escape from the Frost Giants at the pace you're currently traveling?"_

_ "We haven't yet fought the Frost Giants, and I don't expect Father will let us anytime soon, so forgive me for not being worried." He pulls himself up onto the little ledge and looks over the steep drop, the tumbling cliff that extends into the city below. "You're quite sure about this, are you not?"_

_ "Of course, little brother." The blonde laughs easily, clapping him roughly on the back and nearly sending him tumbling back the way he came, until Thor grips his loose coat and steadies him. "Fandral told me so."_

_ "Oh, and Fandral is the expert on such matters." Loki frowns. _

_ "He said Heimdall confirmed it."_

_ "Ah, then it _must_ be true."_

_ The footpath continues before them, thin and jagged, barely visible among the detritus of years of neglect. Loki frowns. "I could be in magic lessons with Amora right now."_

_ "And I could be sparring Sif."_

_ "I thought Sif was to go train with the valkyries."_

_ "What?" Thor stops and Loki's forehead smashes into his older brother's back. He steps back with a frown as blue eyes, confused, turn to meet his own. "The valkyries?"_

_ "Last I heard, yes. When you first called me to this mission I thought you were trying to get the flower for Sif, not for Mother."_

_ There is a pause, then, "Perhaps we should get two."_

_ "You like her." Loki grins, glad for something to take his mind off the steep drop next to him. "Admit it, brother. Sif certainly has wormed her way into your heart."_

_ "Stuff it, and be quiet. I do not have any feelings for her."_

_ "Of course not."_

_ They continue on in silence for a moment. Then: "You don't suppose it's actually true?"_

_ "Thor." Loki sighs exasperatedly, almost fully absorbed in trying to place his feet where his brother's had been only moments before. "I am not certain. I don't much care either way."_

_ "You should."_

_ "I should not. Sif doesn't like me."_

_ "Only because you played that horrible trick on her."_

_ Loki shrugs, even though Thor couldn't see it. "It was a good trick."_

_ "She liked her blonde hair."_

_ "I like darker hair."_

_ "Not everyone can be like you."_

_ He snorts. "No, but they can all wish."_

_ "Do you think the flower is a good idea for Mother?" His brother says abruptly.  
><em>

_ "Yes, of course." He frowns slightly, biting his lip in concentration. A loose rock tumbles over the edge, and he hugs himself closer to the smooth, continuous wall to his right. "I think she'll like anything to brighten up that room of hers."_

_ "Can you believe we are to have another brother?"_

_ Loki's frown deepens. "I had my hands full with just one."_

_ "Ah come, little brother. He'll be great."_

_ He says nothing. His right hand trails over the gold next to him, and, quite suddenly, it catches on something, some hitch. He stops abruptly, but Thor hardly notices, continuing his idle chatter and hard pace. Loki turns, eyebrows drawn, and looks at the stretch of wall next to him. _

_ There is a crack in the unbreakable surface. A thin, barely there line, jagged and unpredictable, spreading about two arm lengths on either side of him. He traces it with a thin finger, then closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Something shifts inside of him; he feels it, physically, like a piece of a puzzle being snapped into place; when he blinks his eyes open he can sense the threads of world's magic.  
><em>

_ They are thin, like harp strings, connecting everything and everyone, but he senses them coalescing around the crack in the wall, pulsating an angry color, as if trying to heal the wound in Asgard's side. _

_ He had a feeling that, no matter the building placed on the spot, the crack would remain; it was a rip in the world, a tear in Yggdrasil. He turns his head slowly and looks at Thor's retreating figure, then takes another sharp breath and pushes along two points of the wound. _

_ The magic snaps and sizzles. Suddenly the crack opens wide, ripping along either end and pulling back as if the gold wall were paper. He smells ice and water, feels cool wind, but then his brother's voice—_

_ "Loki!"_

_ —brings him back to reality and he tears his hands from the wall, watching the thing snap shut and return to the rather unassuming line. He fights for balance._

_ "I'm coming!"_

_ A crack in the world?_

_ He smiles to himself. _

_ Could be useful._

* * *

><p>"Heimdall!"<p>

"My liege."

Thor's fury slashes across his face in an angry line. He feels it, tangible, stirring within him—anger, irrational anger at the beasts that caused this whole thing to happen, at Heimdall, for not warning them, at his father, for taking MjoInir—

But mostly the Jotuns.

They needed to pay.

If it weren't for them, he'd be king. Truly king.

Not crowned by an accident.

"Heimdall, more Frost Giants were found in Asgard's halls." Sif's voice is like a cool salve but he's too far gone for it to reach him. "Did you know anything of this?"

The steady, level response, "No. I did not see them."

"I want to know why!" Thor snaps suddenly, stepping darkly towards the gatekeeper. "It is your duty to keep Asgard safe, and you have now failed us twice in as many days!"

"I did not see them." Heimdall repeats. Thor grips Gugnir and looks to the side, where the Bifrost tumbles into the roaring waves of the sea and the sea tumbles into the stars. The Observatory lies before him.

"I thought you were supposed to be able to see everything. Hear everything. Your power is the reason the AllFather trusted you to this position." His teeth are clenched.

"The Jotuns have always been the hardest to watch. I cannot locate their point of entry. I find it just as hard to track their movements on Jotunheim."

"Unacceptable." Thor strides suddenly past the man and into the circular hall. He hears several footsteps behind him as he turns. "I shall open the Bifrost, then, and smite Laufey for his disobedience. They think that because the AllFather is in the Odinsleep Asgard is defenseless—but they did not count for me."

"Thor, please." Sif crosses her arms, sounding exasperated.

"We already tried to invade Jotunheim." Fandral had lost his usual good humor, and his countenance now resembled Hogun's. "It ended badly. Or do you not notice your lack of hammer and brother?"

"I do not care." He steps up towards the Bifrost controls. "I cannot allow the Frost Giants to continue to sneak into Asgard like cowards. We must face them."

"We need an army for that, my friend." Volstagg's face is blank, almost pained. "An army which is lacking, at the moment—let us call in more troops."

"Better yet," Sif growls, "let us forget the whole notion in the first place."

"I am king!" he roars. "I am king, and this is my choice!"

"You would be wise to listen to your friends, my liege." Heimdall's voice echoes in the circular chamber. "I turn my eye now to Jotunheim and my vision is clouded. I cannot see what they are planning—or where they are. Some powerful magic shrouds them."

"I am king." He repeats, leveling his gaze steadily at his friends. Sif meets his directly, chin raised. Volstagg looks uncomfortably to the side. Fandral frowns deeply, matching Hogun's for intensity. Heimdall is passive, as always. He waits a moment, daring one of them to challenge his decision.

Then he slips Gugnir into the station and turns.

The lightning crackles. It arcs upward, licking at the ceiling. The Bifrost begins to roar with energy, the portal slowly deepening until a myriad of swirling colors covers the darkness of the sky. He laughs at the power of it all, laughs as the taste of battle comes back to him, and he turns his head away from the gateway for an instant.

"Come, my friends! Let us show those beasts once and for all that we Asgardians will not be underestimated!"

And then the ice hits, a cold fist to the gut. There is chaos. He lands in a dizzying heap by the Observatory's entrance; "Fall back, fall back!" Fandral shouts over the noise; Sif is suddenly there, by his elbow, pushing him upright; Hogun and Volstagg cover the flanks; Heimdall swings his long sword upright and advances quickly upon the enemy—

But ice gets there first and the mighty gatekeeper is frozen mid-swing. As they back helplessly towards the bridge Thor sees his mistake clearly laid out before him as the Jotuns tumble full-force into the Observatory, laughing like children, romping and freezing anything in their path—

He opened the bridge for them.

He had played right into their hands.

* * *

><p><em>"Do not be afraid, Loki." His mother's voice is soft as he stands uncertainly at the threshold to her chambers. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looks up, then to the side, and says, finally:<em>

_ "I'm not afraid."_

_ "Well, then, come in. Your baby brother is excited to meet you."_

_ "Oh." Is all he can manage. He feels something stir in his gut. "Did he like Thor?"_

_ "Yes, I dare say."_

_ "Did Thor like him?"_

_ "Of course! What a silly question, Loki." Frigga's smile is soft and sweet, lit warmly by a large fire. The blankets are pulled back and a small, white bundle rests at her chest. Loki approaches cautiously. "I think everyone will love this little child."_

_ He reaches her bedside and looks down; the baby's eyes are closed. His mouth bubbles out in breath, and a tuft of hair is barely visible through the swaddling. Loki crinkles his nose. "What are we to call him, then?" He says at last, hands rigid at his sides. Frigga watches him carefully. _

_ "Baldr."_

_ "Ah." He rubs the back of his neck. Quite suddenly, and almost completely against his will, he blurts forth, "Will you like him more than me?"_

_ "Loki!" Frigga tuts, fighting a smile. "What a thing to say!" She reaches her spare hand towards his arm, looking warmly into his green eyes. "I will always love you."  
><em>

_ He tries to tell himself he should be assured by this, but, looking down at the perfect baby coddled in her arms, he finds it hard not to be—_

_ Not to be jealous._


	8. Chapter 8

**a/n: **long chapter to make up for the long wait. please read and review :)

* * *

><p>"Jane, you need to eat."<p>

"I'm not hungry."

"Jane."

"Erik."

"Well, can I have your hash browns then?"

"Darcy!"

"What? They're just going to go to waste sitting there!"

Erik mutters a response but Jane doesn't really catch it—she's too busy pushing the eggs around her plate in ever widening circles, watching the cars float by outside the diner window. She reaches despondently for the cup of coffee sitting near her left hand; it takes her several tries to grab the thin handle and drag it towards her.

"It really isn't the end of the world, Jane."

She raises her eyebrows but doesn't look at Erik and doesn't respond. Darcy takes her fork and snakes her arm towards Jane's plate, scraping the hash browns onto her own. Without looking Jane hands her the ketchup.

"There will be plenty of other opportunities. Plenty more storms."

"Yeah, but no one will be quite as hot as Loki Odinson." Darcy's words are pushed together as she forces them out around a mouth full of food.

"Loki Odinson. No one could possibly be named that." Erik finishes his coffee and gently sets the mug down.

"Why not?" Jane actually drags her head around to stare at the older man. His eyes are tired, but not in the way hers are from staying up all night. He scratches his forehead as her gaze becomes more scrutinizing. "It's just—" he begins, looking frustrated, but then something catches his eye outside the window and he stops abruptly, turning. Jane follows suit, leaning slightly away from the table to peer beyond Darcy's head.

Several large, black, nondescript SUVs head up the street, looking suspiciously pristine and definitely out of place in the simmering New Mexico heat. Jane nearly drops her mug on the table; as it is, she smashes it down with enough force to send the liquid careening over the edge. Darcy starts up at the sound, away from her food. "What?" she looks behind her, but the cars have already passed.

"Turn left, turn left." Jane mutters under her breath.

They continue straight.

"Damn, damn, damn," she's on her feet in two seconds, swerving around the tables to get to the door. Darcy, perplexed, shouts, "What's happening?" extremely loudly; she hears Erik pull out his wallet and give some excuse to Isabella, who's looking confused behind the counter.

Shielding her eyes from the sun she looks towards the convoy as it pulls to a quick, screeching stop in a half-circle around her lab.

She breaks into a run.

* * *

><p><em>The water moves fluidly and easily underneath his fingers, a pliant marionette that responds to every pluck of every string. In the dark it is a dull, shapeless mass that he can barely see. He hunkers forward, a strange tugging sensation pulling at his gut, something he's never quite felt before, and he doesn't know why but suddenly the air seems colder and his breath fogs into a cloud in front of him; the water begins to ice—<em>

_ "Brother!" _

_ The door opens with a loud crash. Light spills from the entryway, bright and merciless. He loses his concentration, blinking rapidly against the sunspots dancing before his unadjusted eyes. The water crashes into the wide mixing bowl before him. _

_ "Thor." He looks up rather darkly, watching the liquid lick the sides of the container as it moves to a stop. "I am practicing magic."_

_ "You've been practicing for three days straight, Loki." Thor's steps echo across the tower room; he climbs the stairs towards where his brother sits, perched like a hawk, balanced on an uncomfortable looking chair. "People are starting to talk."_

_ "I believe they have hardly noticed I am gone."_

_ "You aren't even letting Amora come in."_

_ "She is useless to me." He waves his hand nonchalantly. "I have outgrown her magical teachings. The only way left is forward." His shrewd, green eyes meet the blue of his brother. "And you do not deny it."_

_ "Deny what?"_

_ "That no one noticed my absence."_

_ "Mother and Father did. Mother especially. You've been taking all your meals up here?" Thor kicks at an empty tray and it skitters across the smooth floor. _

_ "Yes."_

_ "I thought you would have at least made it down for breakfast."_

_ "No."_

_ "Come, Loki," his brother marches forward and grabs him by the upper part of his arm, where the smooth black leather fades into green, and pulls him upright. He allows this, but feels, as soon as he is back on his feet, that he would like nothing much more than to be allowed to sit back down. "I want to spar with you!"_

_ "Spar with Sif."_

_ "I would kill her in an instant; impossible."_

_ He raises his eyebrows, because they both know that that is entirely untrue, and that the opposite probably holds more weight, but he says nothing. Thor looks steadily down at him. _

_ Loki frowns at his shoulder. There is silence. Then:_

_ "I should like to learn a spell for growth, but I haven't yet found one."_

_ "Oh?" Thor stands a little straighter. "Starting to feel inferior?"_

_ Loki bristles at the word, but forces himself to remain calm. "No, I'm simply tired of not being able to look you in the eye."_

_ "Well, you are my _little_ brother."_

_ "I shall be taller than you one day."_

_ "Never!"_

_ "Stuff it, you sense truth there." Loki pads softly around the chair he had been arranged in and begins to neaten the tower room. He rolls up scrolls, closes books, and from the doorway the light seems to grow a little brighter. He's picking up a detailed manuscript on the botany of plants that he found immensely dry when his brother speaks again. _

_ "So are you going to tell my why you locked yourself in the practice tower for three days? Or are you going to make me beat it out of you?"_

_ Loki doesn't turn, continues in his task of gently rolling the parchment. He betrays no emotion. _

_ He is getting ever so good at that._

_ "It's not…" there is an uncomfortable sort of pause. "It's not Baldr, is it?"_

_ Loki stiffens. Then he forces bitter sarcasm, biting and caustic, into his words. "By Niflheim, for one so incredibly dull and dense you do have an ounce of perception when you choose to. _Obviously_ I must have decided to train because I was _jealous_ of a nine year old child, and _not_ because I wanted to hone my craft." He turns with a glare, roughly tossing the parchment—now rather bent—into the nearest corner._

_ Thor remains quiet, canting his head. _

_ "You'll freeze like that soon." Loki snaps. He picks up another book by his feet and suddenly frustration hits him squarely in the stomach, and he feels the over powering urge to hit something. Instead he grits his teeth and snaps his fingers. The articles strewn across the floor pick themselves up and dance to their proper positions, in shelves along the wall or in piles by the door. The torches flicker to life. Still, Thor remains silent. _

_ "What?" he seethes, hating himself more for the anger spilling through, hating Thor in that moment for being more in control than himself. _

_ "Loki, Baldr is not you."_

_ "Again, your powers of observation precede you."_

_ "No, what I mean is—" Thor stops. Then he slams his fist into the palm of his hand with a frown. "What I mean is hard to say." He sends Loki a pointed look. "Not all of us were born with the Silver-Tongue."_

_ "It's just that—" and he is so close to saying it. So close to telling Thor what had been heavily weighing on his mind—so close. He tastes it on the tip of his teeth, and it is desperate and hard and cruel and coming on fast, so he shuts his mouth, biting his tongue hard; he tastes blood. And the words, the words are forced back down his throat._

I was here before Baldr and yet he is the child everyone loves.

_"It's just what?"_

_ Loki looks slowly into his brother's eyes. _

_ He sees concern, genuine concern, and chooses to lie because he does not want to seem weak, does not want to be laughed at—_

_ Does not want to alienate the person he is closest to in the world. _

_ For Thor loved Baldr as much as the rest._

_ "It's just I feel I want to spar you now." He finishes lamely. _

_ "I'm not done with this point."_

_ "You had better be, Brother." He begins the steps towards the door. "Now, seeing as you can supposedly kill Sif, I would like to have her on my team."_

_ Thor barks out a laugh, beginning to follow him. "She'll never take you."_

_ "No one ever does," he mutters under his breath. _

_ The light burns. _

* * *

><p>"Excuse me? Excuse me!" Jane topples to a stop, tumbling into the man standing in the entryway of her lab as she throws open the door. Her face crashes painfully into his stout back and she fights the urge to throw a punch. The man, dressed in a pressed black suit, turns slowly to look at her behind eyes shaded by heavy, dark glasses. She rubs her nose, heart pounding. "What do you think you're doing? I'm going to have to ask you to leave. You can't be here."<p>

"Actually, Ms. Foster, I'm afraid I can be." He smiles blandly, apologetically, and takes off his glasses to reveal equally dark eyes. He moves a little way into the lab, as if deigning to let her in.

She stomps forward, and, coming behind her off the street, Darcy makes a noise that sounds an awful lot like a startled sheep. "That's my iPod! Hey! Wait!"

"I'm sorry, but you need to stop—" Jane steps in the path of another man in a black suit, this one carrying two CPU units, and tries to pull one from his hands, until he gives a sharp tug and begins walking again, and she is forced to give up the endeavor. "We choose to leave the lab unlocked because we _trust_ this town not to come in and steal our stuff—"

"We aren't stealing." The first man gives another half-smile.

"Then I'd like to see your search warrant." She crosses her arms and watches Darcy enact another fruitless struggle for her music player across the room. She spies Erik catching up from down the road, hands in his pockets, walking towards them with a hurried pace. He looks uncomfortably around as he opens the door and several more men in black push past him.

"Agent Phil Coulson. I'm with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."

"What?" Jane looks back at him disbelievingly. He flashes a badge from an inner jacket pocket, black, embossed with an eagle. "I've never heard—"

"Most people haven't." His voice is firm; the annoying, archaic smile is still resting quietly on his face.

She wants to hit it off.

As if he can sense her control weakening, Erik puts a hand on her elbow. "Jane, I think you need to let this alone."

"Wh—no!" She steps away, towards the bank of computers and equipment that had been, until recently, whirring complacently. The agents are starting to dismantle the corkboard from the walls, taking down star charts and maps and years of data. She pulls her notebook from her jacket pocket and pushes them roughly aside, tearing down pages with alarming alacrity and folding them haphazardly into her book. "This is my. Life's. Work!" She turns quickly on Phil Coulson, who seemed to be the head of this asinine operation. "You can't just take it away!"

She feels a tug on her notebook and suddenly it is pulled away from her hands. "Hey!"

The door to the lab is propped open; the cork board and pictures and her notebook make it out into the New Mexico sun, leaving the walls stark and plain. She glares at the agent across from her. "I have constitutional rights—this is _years_ of research, you can't just take it all away!" She repeats, as if repeating it will somehow make it true.

"We can and we will. Appropriation of important items—it's in the job description."

"But you can't—"

"I'm sorry, Ms. Foster, but this is bigger than you."

"Jane!" Erik's voice is harried in her ear. She looks back at him, pushing hair away from her eyes. His own look strained, and he mutters under his breath, "I know this. I know these people. They take what they want, and you can't stop them. Get in their way and you'll get hurt."

She looks abruptly back to the mild agent.

"I'd listen to him if I were you." He begins to polish his glasses. "Have you heard from Banner, Dr. Selvig?"

Erik doesn't respond. Jane watches as the last of her things are piled into the back of one of the SUVs. Her hands, hanging limply at her side, clench, the sharp of her nail biting into the palm. Next to their clean cars the Pinzgauer is open and stripped. Even the kitchen had been searched.

The cars start in the drive; she can hear them all through the open door, the smooth purring slowly filtering away into the distance. Soon all that's left is a sleek black sedan, small and compact, with the passenger side door open.

Coulson looks around, as if making sure that there is indeed nothing left. Jane follows the path of his eyes; the empty walls, the blank desks, everything—gone. She's suddenly conscious of her mouth and the way it's hanging open, but can't seem to muster up the energy to close it.

What is going _on_?

Coulson claps his hands once, slipping his glasses back over his eyes. He tips his head. "We'll be in touch."

Then he is gone.

For a long, drawn out moment there is nothing but silence. Jane's stomach drops somewhere between her toes. The lack of sound behind her, around her, next to her, is oddly off-putting.

"What just happened?" she whispers at last, looking wide-eyed and perplexed at Erik. "What the hell just happened?" He looks steadily back at her, but his hands flit nervously around his face. His mouth is a thin line. He contemplates his answer for a moment, and then says:

"You always knew your research would be coveted by the government."

Jane feels her mouth working soundlessly, hinging open and close, because how could Erik say that so _nonchalantly_—

"Yeah, but I didn't think—I mean, they can't just _take_ it!"

"But they did." Darcy slumps dejectedly back into the empty lap and throws herself in one of the kitchen chairs, which is about the only item that wasn't 'appropriated' for mysterious, inane government purposes. "They took everything. They even took my iPod."

"I don't—I can't—" Jane moves in a slow circle, taking in the emptiness, completely ignoring the intern. "I have to go after them."

"Jane, you can't. I was serious about what I said." Erik moves wearily to sit beside Darcy. "I know people who have gotten on the wrong side of S.H.I.E.L.D. And I've never seen them again."

"S.H.I.E.L.D?" Darcy questions.

"Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division." Jane spits out. Her hand goes almost automatically to the pocket of her jacket where she usually kept her notebook.

"Oh." Darcy says. Then, after a pause: "I just put thirty songs on there, too."

"Enough about your iPod, ok?" Jane snaps, beginning to pace. She rubs her hands together, the connections forming. "Erik, if they were that worried about my research, it means we _were_ on to something, which means that Loki was our best piece of evidence."

"I don't like where this is going." Erik shakes his head. "Leave him alone, Jane, he's gone."

"I _can't_ leave it alone."

"They have to have left something behind," he says rather emphatically, as if that will somehow make it true. "A backup, or—"

"Look around you, Erik!" Jane puts her fingers to her temples, fighting the urge to pull her hair. "They took our backups. They took the backups of our backups." She slumps over to the kitchen table. "They were very thorough."

An uncomfortable sort of silence descends on the table; Darcy fiddles with her glasses, pushing them up the brim of her nose, and Jane, splaying her fingers on the table before her, tries to keep cool. At last Erik coughs uncomfortably. "I know a man. He might be able to help us, but I'll have to e-mail him."

The words hang over them for a moment. Then Darcy lets go of her glasses and says rather mournfully, "They took your laptop."

Jane groans, putting her head in her arms.

* * *

><p>"<em>Well, Brother, choose your weapon carefully." Thor's voice booms across the empty practice stadium, and Loki rolls his eyes, because he can see through the act. Baldr, apparently, cannot; he reaches excitedly for the sharp objects laid out on the table, each more deadly than the last.<em>

"_Must we do this?" Loki hisses in Thor's ear. _

"_Yes." Thor mutters back through the side of his mouth, managing to keep the smile on his face. "Baldr must learn the art of combat."_

"_I do not think him suited for it." Loki finds his own mouth turning a little in distaste as he watches the younger boy brush his lengthy golden hair from his eyes and eagerly reach for a sword entirely too long for his height._

"_And you are?"_

"_I have more bloodlust in my little finger than he has in his entire body." Loki snaps back. "He is too soft."_

"_Lighten up, Loki." Thor begins to stretch his arms. "You are even managing to bring down my mood."_

"_This one!" Baldr whips around frightfully fast, one hand holding a magnificent, gleaming sword that is nearly as tall as he is. _

"_Really? You would choose Gram, the sword that can cut an anvil in half with a single stroke?" Thor roars, eyes dancing. He puts his chin in his hands, pretending to think, then says, "I believe that that weapon requires a tad more skill. Perhaps something smaller. Like its counterpart, Balmung." Thor gestures to a dagger lying peacefully next to the empty spot on the table. Loki watches with hardly concealed boredom. Baldr lets his face fall to an angry frown, and for a moment he thinks that the younger boy will not follow his older brother's advice, but then Baldr turns and places Gram back on the weapons rack, reaching for the knife._

"_Ready?" Thor asks as the younger boy moves to the center of the arena, testing the weight of his new weapon with all the skill and ease of an amateur. Loki rolls his eyes again as Thor picks up a practice staff and advances. _

"_I don't want to fight you." Baldr says suddenly. Loki's ears perk up at the haughty tone._

"_Careful, Baldr," he drawls as Thor, taken aback, straightens and stops his walk, "your spoiled nature is showing."_

"_I want to fight you, Loki."_

"_An unwise choice." Loki grins._

"_Yes, really." Thor twirls the practice staff absentmindedly in his hand. "I am stronger than Loki, but he has gifts neither you nor I will ever posses, Baldr."_

"_May I, brother?" Baldr sends a pleading look in Thor's direction. _

"_Oh yes, may he?" Loki feels the grin growing on his face. _

"_He's never seen you fight; it would be unfair." Thor turns, a frown growing on his face. _

"_Oh, lighten up, brother. It's only a bit of fun." Loki's smile practically sours at Thor's tone. "You coddle the boy too much, just like the others."_

"_Choose your weapon." Baldr demands proudly, steadying his dagger before him, not even waiting for Thor's response. Loki sidles up next to his older brother and whispers, "He only wishes to fight me because he thinks I am not a challenge."_

"_He isn't afraid of you, as most people are."_

"_No, instead he hates me, as most people do. But he does not fear me, as most people should."_

"_You are becoming too arrogant."_

"_Only a bit of fun," Loki repeats, and he hears the challenge from across the stadium once more._

"_Choose your weapon."_

"_I already have." He raises his voice to full volume and turns to face his younger brother. In the golden afternoon sun his hair shines brighter than Thor's, and his ice-blue eyes gaze steadily at him. Loki, feeling dark and very green in comparison, cracks his knuckles. _

"_Well, then," Thor's face is still wearing the frown, and he leans heavily on the practice staff. Loki can tell that he's upset at not being able to spar, even if it was only a spar with his younger brother. "Is everyone ready? Begin!"_

_Baldr charges, his dagger flung wildly to one side. Loki sidesteps, watching the younger boy sail past. _

_At his age Thor could face down a dragon and live._

_Pathetic._

_Baldr turns, regains his footing and charges again, and again Loki sidesteps. The boy turns for another go, this time slashing wildly forward, the blade singing through the air. His angry eyes are suddenly very bright as Loki manages to avoid every swing. "Stop moving!" Baldr shouts._

"_The enemy won't stop. Why should I?" His voice is harsh. "You're control of the weapon is weak; your grip is wrong."_

"_How do you know?" The younger boy shouts back. "You never fight with _real_ weapons! I've heard what people say about you—"_

"_Baldr!" Thor cuts in, warning._

"—_they say you are a coward and a cheat who can't hold his own in battle!"_

_The world goes dark. Loki cuts and hacks at the strings of magic surrounding him until the sun is blotted out and the only thing he can see is the imprint of Baldr's dagger on his eyes. He twists another string, and suddenly his body is compressed and pulled in every direction until he finds himself standing next to his younger brother. Balmung clatters to the floor of the practice stadium. Loki lets green-white witch light cover his hand, and it glints across Baldr's wide, scared face. _

"_I can hold my own just fine. Better then you, anyway." _

_He wonders what the boy sees in the darkness. The eyes dart continuously from the light in his hands to the shadows surrounding him. Loki lets the spell continue, wants it to, for a moment longer, anyway, a moment—_

"_Brother, enough." Thor's voice is in his ear, his hand on his shoulder. Loki straightens, regaining composure, and lets the spell drop. The sun blinks back on. _

"_I'm telling father." Baldr whispers, before sprinting from the practice stadium. Loki sighs, almost directly in unison with his brother._

"_You let your anger get the better of you. You don't do that often." Thor points out._

"_Someone needs to treat him differently."_

"_What?"_

"_He's worse than you." _

_He offers no further explanation, turning away from Thor and heading towards the other exit, letting the words hang heavy on the air. _

* * *

><p>The library air conditioning hits her squarely and she shivers, despite her coat. As she steps into the small little space the librarian looks up behind spectacled, magnified eyes and smiles, but Jane doesn't have the heart to return it. Instead she looks for the millionth time at the e-mail printed in Erik's bold handwriting on a scratch sheet of paper; <span>hpym<span> sounded familiar, but the only man matching the name didn't seem like someone who floated in the same circle as her friend.

She sighs, letting the weight of the day fall on her shoulders, leaning, for a moment, on the nearest bookshelf. She had offered to do this job for Erik mostly because she had wanted to be away from the lab, but now she didn't even feel like walking to the computer.

The library, like everything else in Puente Antiguo, was extremely small. Several tall shelves of books; a depressed area with three desks for studying; the computer terminal; a tall, hawkish figure—

Wait.

She races to the small study area, her heart beginning to pick up speed. From behind her she can feel the disapproving stare of the librarian, but steadfastly ignores it. "What are you doing?" she hisses, unable to believe her luck, sliding into one of the crooked chairs across from the figure hunkered over the desk.

He looks up, blinking languidly, his green eyes reflecting the light of a small desk lamp. "Reading." He says slowly, as if afraid she won't understand the word. He blinks once more, then moves his head back down to whatever he had been studying.

"Have you…" Jane can't seem to find the words she needs, which is a rare and horrible affliction. She folds Erik's piece of scratch paper repeatedly in her hands. "Have you been here this whole time?"

"I came here this morning, yes."

"Oh my _God_," she lets out in a whoosh, leaning back in the chair and nearly toppling over. "I thought—we thought—oh my God."

"What?" He looks up again, and though his face is passive his eyes are amused.

"We thought you left."

"Because clearly I can make it quite far in my current condition." He responds dryly, and she tips the chair back towards the table.

"When you're going somewhere, people usually _tell_ other people."

"I am not accustomed to having people monitor my movements." He frowns, returning to his book. "It is not a practice where I am from."

"Which is where, exactly?" She lets the paper fall to the table, pushing her hair away from her eyes.

"I have been researching mortal modes of transportation." He says by way of response, and she sighs, blowing up a loose strand of honey-brown.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. I must travel into the desert. Something else was sent here."

"Sent?" she repeats slowly. "Here?"

"I have been reading about planes," he motions to a stack of books beside him, and Jane's eyebrows shoot up at their titles. _101 Ways to Build an Airplane, The History of the Airplane, Airplane Flying Handbook._ "They seem a fascinating, if crude, mode of transport."

"_Crude_?"

"We were flying long before you mortals, and without metal machines." He taps a finger lightly on the book before him. "Then I went to automobiles." He points gracefully at the page he's currently looking at, one in which an engine is spread apart and all its components catalogued and named. "Which seems to be what the metal beast who hit me was."

"Yeah, a Pinzgauer." She fades off. Then, quickly, "You're getting awfully chatty."

He raises his eyebrows.

"Because you want me to take you into the desert."

"Perceptive little mortal."

"Because it's an incredibly complex plan," she finds herself biting back a chuckle. "Ok, fine, but you have to answer my questions. You have to promise. Make a binding agreement, or something."

He shuts the book in front of him and tilts his head, regarding her steadily. His mouth is a blank line, his eyebrows smooth, but something calculating waits behind his green eyes.

"I give you my word." He says at last.

She guesses that'll have to do.


	9. Chapter 9

**a/n:** guys, so really, thank you so much for all the faves and alerts and reviews! seriously, as i've said, i wish i could respond to them all. they make my day.

so please read and review :)_  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>"Brother, <em>stop_." Thor hisses between his teeth, coughing to smother a laugh as Loki's thin, graceful fingers tap lightly once more on the table. Volstagg, sitting on the other side and the far end, starts as the fork he was reaching for disappears and reforms somewhere near Fandral's elbow. _

_ "I cannot." Loki mutters darkly under his breath, placing his head in one hand and leaning his elbow on the table, raising his eyebrows. "This banquet is insufferable."_

_ "I'm sorry Mother dragged you into the sunlight." Thor finds his goblet and drains it quickly. "That pale complexion you've been cultivating—" here he puts down his cup and runs a hand over the air in front of his face, speaking through a full mouth; Loki frowns blithely, "—is utterly ruined."_

_ "Ha." Loki straightens, reaching for his own goblet. Thor watches as his brother peers down, swirling the non-existent contents, and then raises a hand to the servants bustling behind them. No one stops. "Useless," he mutters under his breath, rolling the pads of his fingers across the table. The cup refills. _

_ "Another!" Thor shouts, hitting his cup on the tabletop and smirking as a servant immediately stops._

_ "By Helheim, but you are insufferable tonight as well." Loki mutters under his breath, which causes Baldr to look up sharply. Thor busies himself with readying the area in front of him for the arrival of the main course, pretending to ignore the sudden thickening of the air. From the corner of his eye he spies the displeasure apparent in every straight line of Loki's face. _

_ Thor hears Sif's laugh, sharp and bright, from down the table. "Lighten up, brother, or I shall leave you here alone with Baldr."_

_ "Oh, the horror." _

_ "Indeed. I fear you would kill him."_

_ Loki makes a noncommittal grunt; there is a sudden flurry of motion behind them as food begins to arrive from the kitchen. On the AllFather's right, sitting next to Baldr, Frigga clasps her hands, looking sharply at the rather dark, moody figure occupying the space next to Thor. "What's the matter, Loki?" she asks worriedly._

_ "Nothing." _

_ Thor can tell he is lying, but says nothing, grateful for the distraction the main course provides: succulent, carved meat, pastries, side-dishes whose names he cannot recall but whose taste he can—he practically hears Volstagg salivating down the table. _

_ "I am still unsure as to why this banquet was called." Loki mutters, pulling a few thin slices of meat onto his plate. Thor sees him eyeing the head of the table where Odin sits, quietly, calmly. "There is no holiday near; no celebration that I am aware of." He then looks toward the end of the room, peering openly past heads; Thor tracks his gaze, the firelight from the torches on the walls glinting off the gold dining ware. "And nearly every noble in Asgard has made an appearance. Look—even Aegir has come."_

_ "I also see Sigyn. And Freya."_

_ "And I see Sif. Now be quiet." Loki's lips barely move as he speaks under his breath._

_ Thor, pulling a leg off the nearest roast pig, does not have an answer ready for him about the feast, and so shrugs. "Perhaps it was simply to get you reacquainted with society." He says rather lamely after a moment._

_ "No, thank you."_

_ "Oh look—Mother's standing. Here's your answer."_

_ The frown on Loki's face is actually visible; Thor can't imagine why. He sets down the meat and settles against the high-backed, gold chair, watching as Frigga, with merely a glance, silences the crowded hall. _

_ The voices fade, one by one. His mother pushes a graceful hand down the front of her dress, smoothing it, and then begins. "My friends, before you enjoy this magnificent feast, I must address a topic that has been weighing heavily on my heart—as well as the AllFather's."_

_ Thor finds his facial expression quickly moving to match his brother's; the company gathered murmurs quietly. Only one person in the whole of the hall does not seem surprised by the admission—and Thor can feel Loki staring at him dangerously. _

_ "Recently, our son, Baldr," here she inclines her head gracefully towards the young blonde sitting beside her, looking every bit the noble with a circle of silver on his head, "has been troubled by horrible visions in his sleep." _

_ Loki snorts._

"_Visions of his death."_

_ The muted talking grows into a low swell; Odin, at the table's head, slams his goblet once upon the golden surface. "Silence!" His voice echoes out over the balcony and empty air, where the rest of Asgard sleeps. _

_ "These visions are troubling." Frigga continues, unperturbed. "Any form of vision is troubling." _

_ Thor feels Loki bristle at his mother's words, which is another rare emotion, but his face remains passive, except for the slight downturn of his lips. Thor raises an eyebrow, muttering so quietly that he doubts his brother can hear, "She is not attacking magic, Loki."_

_ "Which is why we called you here this evening." Frigga holds her hands tightly in front of her, taking a moment to look at the table. "I would ask of you, all of you," she stops again, weighing her words, letting them hang heavy over the air, "I would ask of you a simple promise, one in which I hope you all hold true."_

_ Thor, confused, beings tracing the pattern incised on his goblet with the tip of his finger: vine, grape, flower, vine—_

_ "I would ask that you all make this promise. I hope that you will make it, even if nothing more than your love for Baldr drives you to do so." Here she smiles down at the boy in question. Loki shifts abruptly in his seat:_

_ "I can't believe this."_

_ "Please, make an oath tonight—that no harm will come to my son by any of your hands."_

_ —grape, branch, leaf—_

_ The table consents enthusiastically. _

_ —vine, flower—_

_ Loki says nothing._

_ —mistletoe._

_ "Thor. Thor. Thor!"_

* * *

><p>"Thor!"<p>

He starts forward, nearly toppling to the ground, eyes ripping away from the manicured walkway leading up to the city, the thick, green bunches of leaves looking like mistletoe in the dying afternoon light. He winces at the sudden pain in his side and looks down, the heavy, Asgardian material ripped and shredded and wet from where the Jotun hit him, the skin beneath turning a frost-bitten black.

"Thor." Sif is suddenly close, her hands on the side of his face, pulling his gaze toward her. "Thor, you must give the orders, quickly. Fandral is getting something for your side, but the Jotuns are on the Bifrost. We do not have time to waste!"

He doesn't know what to do. Strategy—that was most definitely his brother's forte.

He could charge back in and retake the Observatory.

He _wants_ to charge back in and retake the Observatory.

But they would have the upper hand.

"Close the gate to the Bifrost." He says after a pause, voice rough, stepping back from Sif and straightening. For the moment only his friends bear witness to his defeat, which sits like a gaping hole in the middle of his chest and smarts more than any wound. "Close the gate. We must protect the city, and the palace."

Soon all of Asgard would know of his folly.

"And troops, then?" Volstagg says quietly, as if afraid to break the grave, new silence. "Shall I-?"

"Yes." Thor says quickly. There is no fight in his words. "Yes, ready the Aesir. Ready an army, if you must. I don't not know how many Jotuns will come."

"My liege." Volstagg bows, and Thor almost physically cannot stand the disappointment he sees floating behind the dark eyes.

"Hogun, fetch me a weapon from the Vault." Thor finds his lethargy leaving as anger takes control, heady and ugly, at the lack of general understanding about his plight anyone seemed to have. His voice is sharp. "Any will do. It does not matter."

The grim man inclines his head and races down the path stretching out behind them. Thor can feel Asgard's gaze, as disapproving as his friends', on his back, gold towers brushing the sky.

"To the gate." He says when only Sif remains. "Come."

She doesn't respond, following silently. The thick, iron, dwarf-crafted doors sit open as they round the first bend in the path to reach it. The three guards on sentry are grouped in the center of the gate's shadow, looking down the transparent bridge towards the Observatory, at the raging lights emanating from there.

"My liege, you just came from—" one of them turns and starts at the sound of Thor's heavy footfalls. He sees the doubt forming in their eyes, and the hole in his chest widens.

"Close the gate." He cuts him off.

"But sir, we have orders from the AllFather that this gate should remain open, at all times, as a sign of peace." The second guard nearly drops his spear, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.

"And I am your king, now." Thor growls. "And you will shut the gate."

"We are under attack." Sif says quietly, and he finds he must bite his lip to keep calm. He tastes blood. "Which you can see from the way the Observatory is currently behaving. If you are going to question the express orders of your king once more, I suggest you turn yourself in to the palace guards and await further judgment in the dungeon. Until then, close the gate."

The guards scurry to comply. Thor stands at the entrance to the Bifrost as the hinges groan under the near and unexpected motion. The doors slowly begin to move, inch by inch, and he watches as, for the first time in a millennia, Asgard closes itself to the world.

And, though it might be his imagination, he thinks he sees the first reaches of frost inching its way toward the golden city.

Then the doors shut.

* * *

><p><em>They are not a normal family. <em>

_ Some days he sees this more clearly than others. _

_ Tonight the world outside is wet and dreary with a rare storm, blown in off the sea or maybe the stars beyond; they are gathered in one of the many sitting rooms, this one maybe a dull bronze instead of a polished gold. A fire crackles merrily in the hearth, but Loki cannot feel it. He keeps to the shadows, leaning against a pillar, book open but unread in his lap, and he watches. _

_ There is a small laugh, warm, like a summer breeze; his mother, smiling, settles further into her seat and looks at the AllFather, the rare traces of his own happiness quickly leaving his face, so that it settles into the normal, passive mask Loki knows and imitates so well. _

_ He has only seen his father smile at three people. _

_His mother. His brother. And Baldr. _

_ Thor is currently occupied trying to get the young boy to pick up a small, toy sword, wooden and clunky. The boy keeps frowning, pushing the proffered item away and reaching for the shield instead, which irks his brother to no end. _

_ Loki turns his eyes back to this book. _

_ The words jumble a bit before him; he does not particularly care about the star patterns and their meanings at the moment. He keeps thinking back to how this scene would have looked three years ago, back when things we better._

_ He splits his life into the Before and After, and that was Before._

_ It would have been him and Thor, fighting over some inconsequential thing; but that was fine. That would have felt _normal_ to him. And at least he would not have faded into the background nearly so much. _

_ Baldr is the sun, and Loki is the shadow he dispels. As long as the younger boy is around, no one notices his presence. _

_ He leans his head back against the column behind him and closes his eyes. The soft murmur of his parents' conversation reaches his ears; it mingles with the sound of the rain. He is gathering his resolve to leave the room when Thor's frustration gets the better of him, and his brother leaves the young boy on the floor. Loki feels something shift as he comes to sit next to him. _

_ "He does not like the sword." _

_ He sounds like a petulant child. Loki does not open his eyes. "We are not all born warriors."_

_ "Well, we should be."_

_ "There are higher things than metal and weapons, Thor." Loki sighs, shutting his book and opening his eyes. _

_ "Hardly." There is a pause. Then: "Sif's Name Day is coming soon."_

_ "Ah."_

_ "I do not know what to get her."_

_ "Give her your respect; I think she would appreciate it."_

_ "I respect her!"_

_ "You humor her." He gazes steadily into his brother's blue eyes. "Thor, she is a better warrior than you."_

_ "No one is a better warrior than me."_

_ "Yes. Of course not." He's in a dark humor tonight, not willing to argue a point on which his brother is so stubborn. _

_ "I wish it wasn't so difficult."_

_ "I wish you were not so stupid."_

_ Thor snorts indignantly, but his response throws Loki off-balance. "Do you remember that story that Father used to tell us?"_

_ "By Gugnir," Loki rolls his eyes, "but you will have to be more specific than that." He looks down his nose at the room before them, at Baldr, who had, now that Thor was gone, acquired a sudden, intense interest in the toy sword. _

_ "The one about the old Aesir. And Death."_

_ "Once upon a midnight dreary."_

_ "That's not how it starts."_

_ "It should." Loki frowns, then continues quickly, "Once upon a time an old Aesir was walking in the woods."_

_ "Odin AllFather had told him to pick up bundles of sticks, but he did not know why." Thor elbows him in the side and he winces. "He grew tired of his work."_

_ "Because it was burdensome and pointless." Loki, for once, does not see where this is going, cannot read the train of Thor's thoughts. "His back ached from bending down; his arms ached from holding sharp twigs. He grew so fed up with his inane mission that he threw the sticks to the ground._

_ " 'Oh, I wish that Death would come for me!' He said, sitting abruptly. 'For no longer can I handle this work.'"_

_ "Quite suddenly Death appeared before him, a horrible demon from Hel with a skull for a head."_

_ Loki looks sharply to Thor at this last, raises his eyebrows, and says dryly, "Oh, really? What else might he have for a head? A rock?"  
><em>

_ "Well, it had no skin!"_

_ "Were you but born a bard, and then maybe interesting conversation would follow. Where are you going with this?"_

_ "Death said," Thor continues purposefully, " 'I heard you called my name. What is your wish? Why did you summon me?'_

_ " 'Help me put this sticks on my back.' The old Aesir replied, and Death did so, and left as quickly as he came.'"_

_ "Yes, yes," Loki waves his hand, annoyed, "if all our wishes were granted we would surely be sorry."_

_ "So, if I really was stupid, you'd be sorry." Thor grins widely. Loki's mouth falls open slightly and he says exasperatedly, "But you _are_. Especially if you made me recite that whole story just to make that point."_

_ "It was a good illustration."_

_ Loki remains silent. He remembers the day his father told it to them—him and Thor, younger, younger, younger, sitting at the edge of a fire, angry, after a fight, both wishing the other dead or worse—_

_ Now Loki had but one wish, one he would not be at all sorry to have granted. _

I wish I was loved.

_The rain continues, harder. _

* * *

><p>"Can you say something? Please?"<p>

He watches her knuckles grip the wheel before her more tightly, turning white from the pressure. He asks, "Are you nervous, little mortal?"

"Well, I don't exactly do this often." She looks quickly to him for a moment, then back at the road. The car bumps and bruises itself over the desert, and he fights a wince as his side flairs up. "Break the rules."

"There are no rules, where I am concerned." He says seriously, looking at the desolate landscape and wishing for more green. "And we are breaking nothing. We are merely looking."

"Yeah." She says, but doesn't sound all that sure, and one hand flits nervously to push the hair back from her face. Her brown eyes dart towards him then away.

He looks out the window. The glass separates him from the hot desert sun and the dirty grime of his surroundings. Nothing but brown, stretching endless and unyielding, broken by a few rolling hills in the distance.

What an ugly, horrible world.

He settles back into the seat and makes to close his eyes; suddenly, the annoying mortal speaks.

"Some people came earlier, and stole all my things."

"Tragic." He tries to close his eyes again, to not care, but there is a deep sort of sadness in her voice, hidden behind layers and layers of anger, so when she continues on despite his disinterest he isn't really surprised.

"I think it's because I met you." She frowns at him. "Years of work."

"I assure you, I had nothing to do with it."

"See, I study stars." She's using his technique, the one he perfected, in which he avoids difficult topics by taking a sharp left and answering with the unexpected. He straightens, going back to looking out the window, silent. She taps the wheel. "Stars and wormholes and Einstein-Rosen Bridges and…"

She fades off, until all he can hear is the humming of the beast underneath them. Then, quite swiftly, quite forced, "Other worlds."

"Ah."

"Ah." She repeats sarcastically. "So I had this crazy thought. That maybe,_ maybe_ you didn't just get stuck in that anomaly. Maybe you were_ from_ that anomaly."

"Indeed?"

"Are you?"

"Patience, Jane Foster." He closes his eyes then, but they don't stay shut. "You do not possess it. And you need it."

"An overrated virtue. Nothing ever got done through patience."

"Odin's beard, you are starting to sound like my brother." He winces at the thought. "Granted, marginally more intelligent."

She doesn't answer. In the little mirror attached to the car outside of his door he watches the desert play out behind them, inconsequential landmarks getting smaller in the distance, just as the little mortal town had vanished into empty air some time earlier.

"You have a brother?"

"Obviously."

"Any other siblings?"

He simmers, but keeps his face passive, empty. "I only have one that counts." He doesn't like the interrogation. Hates it, even.

No one with the single exception of Thor has ever paid this much attention to him.

"I thought you mortals had Aesir here." He says to get her off his back; he can see the question she swallows, but then a new one comes in to replace it—

"Aesir?"

"Your mortal tongue is so unrefined." He rubs the bridge of his nose. "How would you describe it—warriors, that is the most literal translation." His hands move to massage his temples. "I mean law enforcement." He says at last.

"What, to stop those people who came into my home and took everything?" She makes a little snorting sound. "Yeah. I thought so too. But apparently if you're high enough up in the government you don't have to answer to certain laws. S.H.I.E.L.D. I've never even heard of them."

"They took all your things?"

"Everything in the lab, yeah. And the Pinzgauer." She jerks her head backwards, and he follows the line to the empty back of the car. "All my computers, all my data, all my hard copies, star charts, weather maps." She readjusts her grip on the steering wheel. "Asinine," she mutters under her breath.

He moves his hand to roll the pads of his fingers along the material in front of him. There's another pause. Then:

"I don't quite understand it all myself…" she fades off into a light, nervous laughter. The car swerves over the road as she avoids a particularly large rock. "So your brother. What's he like?"

Damn.

He remains stony, silent, looking out the front glass into the desert beyond, tracing the trajectory of the fallen object in his mind's eye. "Continue, but a little more to the left. Over that ridge."

She complies, but doesn't drop the subject. "Is he as anti-social as you are?"

"Hardly." He finds himself saying, almost against his will. "But I am only this way as a product of upbringing."

She looks sharply over at him. The ridge beckons, drawing nearer, and he feels something tug in his gut. He wishes the mortal would drive faster. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asks sharply, turning her face back to the road, pushing her hair from her eyes.

The car finally crests over the lip of the hill; it slopes gently down on the other side, and the mortal eases the vehicle to a precarious stop. They rest on the mouth of a wide, deep-mouthed crater, centered around a small, barely discernible object.

The world is empty, except for them.

He feels the tug, only stronger this time; he opens the door and steps out onto the rough dirt. When he looks back the mortal is glaring at him from the driver's side, having yet to even unfasten herself from the safety harness. "It means," he says coldly, when he sees she won't budge, "that you only become as I am by being ignored."

He slams the door and begins the descent to the crater's center, sliding a little on the loose rubble and dirt. The sun is beginning to set in the late afternoon, making his lengthy, lithe shadow seem longer than it really is. He hears the mortal exit the metal monster but doesn't look back, because the item in front of him is slowly starting to come into focus, and he recognizes its intricate design—

As he reaches toward it, the sensation in his gut grows.

A blue light flickers.


	10. Chapter 10

**a/n:** guys, i'm sorry! i usually try to get these up in a week, but things keep getting busier. plus i'm not entirely satisfied with this chapter; i wanted to edit it some more, but it was either post it today or wait till the weekend. so.

please read and review :)

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><p>He stands for a long moment, still, motionless, one hand slightly outstretched, the other clenched at his side. His fingers point out towards the depression where it sits, embedded into the dirt; still the thin, watery blue light flickers from the bottom out.<p>

He cannot believe his eyes.

His brows draw together slightly, his mouth parts; the sensation in his gut is now constant. For a moment the world is quiet, stopped, frozen—

And then the mortal girl stumbles into him from behind.

He doesn't move; she barely weighs anything, but the pressure into his back is uncomfortable. The confusion on his face drops and he is suddenly passive again. Emotionless. His hand folds to his side. He turns slowly, one eyebrow raised in mockery, as the girl straightens, her face flushed. She pushes her hair from her eyes and steps next to him, coughing slightly into her hand. After a moment, in which she studies the object before her—now, that he wasn't reaching out for it, a dull gray—she breathes in sharply.

"What _is_ that?" She whispers, but before he can respond she's taken two steps, hunkered down on her knees, and is tracing the pads of her fingers over the porcelain surface. "This is amazing!" She stuffs her hair behind her ears and reaches inside her jacket—then she looks down sharply, empty-handed, and sighs.

"Damn it, they took my notebook." She pushes her breath up and out in a stream; it throws her hair up wildly around her face. "It doesn't look like meteorite."

"It's not." His voice is monotone. He looks at the surface, cracked and pitted like melted ice, with two, deep impressions on either side of the rectangular cube, meant to be handholds.

"Something else, then? Some sort of power source?" She presses her face up against it.

He folds his hands across his chest, thinking, thinking, thinking; this is a chess game, and he cannot fathom why his father made this move.

"The Casket of Ancient Winters."

"What?"

"I do not repeat myself." He says bluntly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Why?

Why send the Jotun's greatest weapon from Asgard?

Unless the Jotuns were in Asgard, in full force. Unless, unless, unless—

His stomach tightens; his mouth dries.

"So what is it?" The mortal breaks him from his thoughts. Her eyes are very bright and she looks fevered. The flush hadn't left her cheeks.

He fights the urge to frown, because that would betray something, would show that he cared. And he didn't. Instead he twists his hands; the usual strands of magic are gone; there is nothing but air, dry and hot, lacking any and all substance. "An artifact." He settles for placing his hands ridge-straight at his side. "An artifact from my world."

She turns abruptly, her eyebrows raised, but for once remains quiet. When she twists back it is slowly, as if she is afraid any abrupt movements will frighten him off.

The Casket is sitting on a mound of dirt, slightly askew, one end embedded into the ground. He looks at it for a moment, then away, around the area it sits in: the crater rises smoothly on either side, as if the Midgardian surface was molded and carved by the impact. Behind him sits the car. The mortal girl left one of the doors open.

Overhead the sun is sinking further towards the horizon, and a slight breeze whistles above the impression in the earth. He steps forward around the girl, who is now muttering heatedly to herself under her breath, and the tugging sensation in his gut returns, growing.

"I have to record this." She says quite brusquely, standing and stepping back, rubbing dirt off the knees of her pants. "I have to. There's probably something in the car I can use—the back of a registration, or something…" she fades off, already turning, stumbling up the sides of the depression. Halfway to the metal monster she turns and snaps, "Don't touch anything!"

Loki rolls his eyes.

The sound of rummaging reaches his ears; he takes another step, slowly, watching the small blue light respond from the Casket like some sort of heartbeat, quick, rapid. He moves until the tips of his boots scrape the natural pedestal it sits on; the feeling in his stomach is almost unbearable. He pushes one hand up, forward, forward—it hovers for a second above the exposed grip, and then, hardening his resolve, he plunges towards it.

Ice. He actually feels cold, traveling quickly up his arm, through his veins. The Casket pulls free, easily, and only as he balances it in the palm of his other hand, as the blue light pulses brilliantly, as a wave of cool, refreshing air washes over him, only then does he see—

The bare skin of his lower arm, blue to the elbow.

He drops the Casket like it burns; it hits the ground once with a thin, metallic sound, rolls, and then comes to a rest a few feet from him. He can already hear the mortal, slamming the door with a curse.

"What just happened? I told you not to move anything!"

His breathing is rapid, his chest heaving, but his face is still blank. His outstretched arm returns slowly to its normal, pale hue.

Her boots send rubble, rocks, and detritus scuttling towards the center hollow.

"Are you ok?" she frowns. "What just—"

"I cannot touch it." His hands clench. "It seems you will have to handle it."

She's holding a piece of paper with dense writing in one hand and a pockmarked pen in the other. She frowns. "Alright." When she notices him staring at the items in her hand she mistakes his gaze for interest. She reveals more of the paper. "My license and registration." She laughs half-heartedly. "I don't think I'll need them later. Hopefully not, anyway."

He says nothing. His heart is still hammering a staccato beat in his chest, refusing to slow. Above him the darkening sky, now a deep azure tinged black at the edges, weighs down oppressively. Seeing he isn't going to respond, she bends toward the item and begins writing vigorously, the paper balanced on her knee.

They remain like that for some time in the quiet of the desert as she measures the Casket with her hand and taps it with her pen. He stares at nothing, somewhere above her left-shoulder.

Did his brother send the weapon down?

_thra-dum-dum-dum_

Or his father?

_Thra-dum-dum-dum_

He looks up, but the desert sky is empty.

_THRA-DUM-DUM-DUM_

"Should we be worried about that sound?" he asks mildly, twisting his head towards the girl, watching as the pen slips from her hand. The heavy noise dawns on her slowly, and she staggers to her feet, reaching out for the items around her. Suddenly:

"Shit!" Jane Foster stumbles forward, her voice clipped, her hands grasping the Casket firmly as she flies to her feet. "Move!"

There is an unexpected light, white and harsh, sweeping the edges of the bowl, coming in across from them. Loki frowns.

"Come _on_!"

He moves, but only just, the white light sweeping over the empty pedestal and the space they had just occupied. A strong wind suddenly surrounds them, pushing him off balance as he moves towards the vehicle above. The mortal is in front of him, her feet scrabbling for purchase, the Casket settled firmly in the crook of her elbow. He gets too close and it flickers once, so he slows until she whispers intensely, "Hurry up!"

He doesn't feel the same sense of urgency as she does. In fact, he knows that he could cause the metal beast swirling above them to crash if he so chose.

Unfortunately, he doesn't see that fitting anywhere into his plan.

The mortal reaches her vehicle first, opening the door quickly, fumbling with the keys. He follows at a much more leisurely pace; the light from behind them sweeps quickly up the crater; the wind picks up, as does the noise, which seems to hit him squarely behind the eyes. He opens the car door.

"Get in, get in—" She tosses the Casket roughly to the empty back of the van, where it rolls and slides to a stop next to the far wall. The car stutters to life underneath her touch and he is thrown roughly to the side as she backs quickly from the area, narrowly swerving to avoid the searchlight up above.

"A helicopter." She pounds the floor of the car with her foot and it springs to sudden, untamable life beneath her, shooting into the darkening desert. "A helicopter. Damn it."

He looks back at the Casket. "It appears you are not the only one monitoring inter-world communications, Jane Foster."

"I stepped on S.H.I.E.L.D's foot again. Erik told me I shouldn't have, I should have stayed at home—" she's breathing heavily. In the rear view mirror he watches the beams of the 'helicopter' cut through the desert as it lands, the metal frame disappearing out of site behind the raised walls of the depression.

"Are those the people you let acquire all of your things?"

"They have to be. It's too big of a coincidence." She pauses, as if to collect herself, the car hurtling blindly through the darkness. Then, "I didn't _let_ them!"

The vehicle slows. He watches the landscape come into hazy focus as they stop. In the empty back the Casket slides from one end to the other, hitting the wall with a sound akin to glass breaking. The quiet descends thickly around them.

"Did they see us, do you think?" she whispers underneath her breath, her hands still on the wheel, her face covered by her hair. .

"You seemed all for breaking the rules earlier." He responds dryly.

"That was before I almost got caught by a secret government agency."

"Ah."

The sun had set in their escape. The stars in the dark desert night flicker on one by one; he counts them through the windshield, realms and worlds that he has not yet seen, might never see. The thrum of the helicopter's blades is gone. For a long minute there is nothing, as seems to be the norm with them. Then:

"You have to tell me—"

"The Casket is a—"

"No," she looks flustered, pushing her hair behind her ear, "no, you go."

"Of course, because what I have to say is much more interesting than what you could possibly still have to ask." He looks resolutely out the window in front of them, ignoring her little squawk of protest. The mortal cuts the engine on the car. "The Casket of Ancient Winters is the main weapon of Asgard's greatest enemy."

He tries to ignore the picture of blue skin that comes, unbidden, to his mind.

"Asgard?"

"My home."

"So you aren't from Earth." It escapes in a sort of sigh; she sounds happy, excited. "I knew it. Einstein-Rosen Bridge. This proves everything."

"Will you let me speak?"

"I—"

Thrum-dum-dum-dum-thrum—

The mortal starts the car in one fluid motion. The soft murmur of the engine mutes the harsh cutting of the helicopter, which comes up fast behind them, the white light a bright, ugly thing in the dark. She swerves to avoid the beam; he grips the side of the door, his side aching as they hit a rough spot and the car bounces once, twice, thrice, and then, suddenly, the helicopter has passed them, the glow skimming the back bumper, drowned out abruptly by a stretch of desert that is lighting up the night like a miniature sun—

"Wow." She breaks the car, skidding to a stop, sliding sideways.

Loki looks at the area before him, feeling quite a different sensation than the one he felt near the Casket.

Power.

Raw power.

In the middle of a mortal-created complex of twisting pipes, bright lights, black cars, a hub of activity—

Calling to him.

* * *

><p><em>The only sound in the practice field is the sharp, metallic song of Sif running the sharpening stone down her sword blade, again and again and again. He's perched easily on a wooden barrier meant for defense, his position languid but eyes tight. He watches the motion of her stone; thinking he hears a noise, he turns swiftly towards the entry to the dirt area, but no one is there. <em>

"_Do you know where he is?" her voice carries and echoes. He shrugs, suddenly interested in trying to animate the small rock near his foot. _

"_I grow tired of waiting." Finished with the stone she tosses it to the side; it lands expertly on the thick, timber table holding the weapons for today's practice matches. _

"_I do not pretend to understand my brother." He pulls his finger back and the rock suddenly springs into the air, coming to rest a couple of inches above his palm. "He has the grace and mind of an ox; he probably got distracted on the way here." _

"_You speak bluntly."_

"_I speak the truth." He looks at her, one eyebrow raised, as if daring her to challenge him. She frowns. _

"_I do not like the way you treat Thor."_

"_I do not like the way you speak to me, Lady Sif." He lets the rock settle in his palm and then crashes down upon it, fisting his fingers; when he opens them there is only a fine powder, which he lets drift away on the wind. "I especially do not like the way you judge my relationship with my brother."_

"_I have been meaning to speak with you on the matter for some time," she steps forward, the thin blade glistening in the early morning sun, "but I can never quite catch you alone, Loki. You are too quick."_

_He grins, but can hardly hide the bitter taste in his mouth. He nimbly takes to his feet. "You think I do not have Thor's best interests at heart?"_

"_Yes."_

"_You think I am jealous of the prodigal son?"_

"_Yes." She straightens. Her posture is relaxed, the blade hanging at her side, but he can tell by the set of her shoulders and her thin, pursed lips that she is merely waiting for a moment to strike. _

"_You think me a liar and a thief?"_

"_I know you to be a liar and a thief." She corrects him. He stalks forward slowly; at his full height he is nearly a head taller than she. Sif continues, "And I will protect Thor to the death."_

_The words anger him. The insinuation beneath them angers him. His face is blank. When he speaks next it is low, the words clipped; he keeps his hands at his side for fear of doing something rash with the magic currently surrounding them. "Then hear this, Lady Sif. I love my brother more than I love anyone else in the world. And I do not love easily." _

_He compresses his words through clenched teeth. He doesn't know when they got this close—the tip of her blade presses against his side. Her eyes are hard, glinting. He towers over her, one of his hands moving of its own accord—he could cut one strand and end Sif's life forever—_

"_What? You started without me?" Thor's voice is disappointed, nearly a shout from the other end of the practice field. "I was only readying my armor—"_

_Sif starts once and then backs away, slowly. He stays where he is, feeling an unhurried, manic grin come over his face. Thor continues to speak, unaware of the tension, swinging a heavy practice staff at his side. Loki cannot hear him. _

_There is only Sif, her words, sharp, accusing.  
><em>

"_I notice you only included Thor in that description."_

_Loki says nothing. _

_As far as he is concerned, his other brother is just another blot on the already blemished plane of his existence. _

_That is all._

* * *

><p>"You can't just walk in there."<p>

Jane's come to the conclusion that he's bat-shit insane, but doesn't dare tell him that. She wishes for the warmth of the car and shivers in the now cold New Mexico air. He's perched lightly on his feet, bent down, his upper body protruding above the ridgeline and the small, dying bushes that are providing her some cover.

He watches.

She follows his gaze. S.H.I.E.L.D was thorough. She would give them that. They had built a complex around _something_; barbed-wire fencing creates a rough perimeter. The front gate is manned by two snipers perched atop high, plastic rafters. Inside she can see synthetic tubing, tents, and guns—

_Lots_ of men with_ lots_ of guns.

She rubs the sides of her arms. "It's a death wish."

"I know." She can only make out the back of his head as he tracks three black sedans pulling into the front gate.

"So you think that something else from your world is in there?"

"I'm sure of it."

"Is it raining artifacts? Does this usually happen?"

"No."

She waits for an explanation but he offers none. Instead he stands. "Get down!" She hisses, tugging at his pant leg, but he shakes her off. Somewhere overhead a midnight storm rumbles loudly. She looks up; she had hardly noticed the clouds rolling in to cover the stars. "_If_ you actually make it in there, how are you going to get out? The front door?"

"I am going to fly out."

"_What_—"

"Stay here."

And with that he strides toward the front gates. She watches him leave, her mouth hanging, the sky threatening rain and her limbs threatening hypothermia, and all she can think of is to reach into her front jacket pocket, pull out her phone, and dial.

She gets his voice mail.

"Uh. Hi, Erik, it's Jane. You, uh, you know that thing that you told me to keep my nose out of? Well, yeah, I didn't. So, if I'm not back in an hour if you could just—if you could just come get me."

The rumbling gets louder. There is a commotion near the gate.

"Thanks."

* * *

><p><em> He was trying to be invisible, had chosen what he thought was the perfect hiding place—<em>

_Apparently not._

_He hears the door to his room open, muffled by the balcony windows; then those are thrown wide as well, glass onto marble. He inches back on the roof as a blonde head comes into view. _

_ "Loki?"_

_ He doesn't want to answer. _

_ "Come, brother, stop hiding." _

_ The going gets tough and he gets hiding. _

_ "I will summon a thousand storms upon your head."_

_ Not likely._

_ "Suit yourself." Thor grips MjoInir quite suddenly in his hand; the sky overhead, so far the perfect pastel of an Asgardian sunset, begins to steadily darken. He rolls his eyes. _

_ "Is that really necessary?"_

_ "Ah! There you are!" Thor looks directly upwards with a grin; Loki ceases to hide his feet and instead lets his long legs hang over the edge of the roof. "I knew it."_

_ "I want to be alone, brother."_

_ "No, you don't."_

_ "Yes, I really think I do." Loki lies backward on the slight incline, slicing through a few strings of magic with his hands to help keep his grip. _

_ "I'm being crowned king in a week."_

_ "I am aware." He feels something angry rear within him, fights the urge to scream and yell, settles instead on a long, heavy sigh. "Do you think you are ready?"_

_ "Of course, brother! What a foolish question." A pause. "Now let me up."_

_ Thor will wait below him until he gives into the command. Rolling his eyes, Loki un-lodges one arm from where it rests, a pillow to his head, and waves his hand over the empty air. A few moments later Thor's large fingers are gripping the edge of the roof. He pulls himself up. _

_ "Why must you always lock yourself in incredibly high places?"_

_ "I was certain no one would look here. I wanted a few moments peace and quiet before the coronation, but you seem to be Hel-bent on ensuring I do not get that."_

_ "I was worried about you."_

_ Loki sits up; his feet still hang over the balcony extending from his room. Beside him Thor does the same, and for a moment they are two children again, hiding from their father or from one of the attendants or one of their tutors, young and wiry and restless. _

_ But he sees things truly and the illusion fades as quickly as it comes and once more they are tall, one lithe, one broad, one light, one dark—they are old. _

_ MjoInir hits the golden roof with a clear sound. Loki tries not to notice it. _

_ He has been trying hard not to notice a lot of things, lately.  
><em>

_ "I am fine."_

_ "I do not believe that."_

_ Loki smiles a sad sort of smile, looking out at the sunset beyond the Bifrost, sinking into the sea of stars. "Truly, brother."_

_ Thor is silent. After a moment: "I have been thinking of what I will do when I am king."_

_ "Oh?"_

_ "I will defend Asgard's honor. No matter the price."_

_ Loki's blank face returns. "Not a wise choice."_

_ "Of course it is!"_

_ "There are better things than honor." Loki opens his hand and ticks them off slowly. "Peace, prosperity, well-being—"_

_ "Honor resides above all of that." Thor swings his feet. "Without honor we earn no respect."_

_ "You would go to war to protect this notion?" He rubs his temples._

_ "Of course!"_

_ "Then you are more foolish than I thought." He snaps._

_ "You just do not understand the concept of honor, brother—you never have."_

_ "Are you suggesting I have no honor?"_

_ "Of course you don't. You are the patron of mischief."_

_ Loki feels his dark mood returning. "Did you come here to argue?"_

_ Thor is frowning openly, his face a book. Loki thinks for a moment, then, watching the slow descent of the sun, says softly, "Trying to protect abstract notions like the one you describe will only bring you more opponents."_

_ "Let them come."_

_ "You do not want that. Then they do nothing more than hound you and hurt you and—" He stops abruptly. Thor looks sharply at him. "I suggest you take my advice, brother."_

_ "You speak as if you know from experience."_

_ Loki watches the sun shrink._

_ "You don't become the Nine Realms's best trickster without making a few enemies." _

_ It is dark. _

* * *

><p>He throws a hand over the man's mouth and twists. His neck doesn't break, but Loki sends enough force into his head to send him collapsing backwards. The whole thing takes maybe ten seconds, but he makes sure to create enough noise to catch the attention of the guards located above him and across the entrance.<p>

"Hey, you! What's going on down there?" The one on the hastily erected scaffolding shouts. Loki can feel the level barrel of the mortal weapon pointed at his back but he continues steadily with his work, the darkness concealing him.

"Hey! Answer me!"

"We have an intruder!" He raises his voice at last, tugging the last of the man's jacket over his elbows and straightening the bottom. A thin card is in one of the pockets; an identification device. Loki scoffs silently at the crudeness of it all and then proceeds to switch his own boots with the heavy, utilitarian ones of the figure lying in the scrub and brush, motionless in the shadow of the overhang.

The artificial light casts it all in an eerie, pale glow.

"An intruder?" The man shouts from above, the sound of footsteps reaching his ears. He straightens, breathing out once through his nose, not entirely sure if this will work—

It all depends on the stupidity of the mortals.

"Hey, are you—" The guard reaches him at last. Loki adjusts his features and steps into the half-light; the man, rather square and blunt, wearing a hat despite the time, stumbles backwards, shocked.

"I need back up down here now!" He screams, his voice going brittle and raw at the end. Loki suddenly finds the black, tapered end of the mortal weapon leveled at his chest. He smiles slowly, raising his hands on either side of him.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Thor Odinson."

"No lies!"

His grin widens.

The guard takes a tentative step forward so that the metal tip is pressed deeply into Loki's chest. He motions to his fallen comrade. "What did you do to him?"

"Nothing permanent." Loki feels uncontrollable laughter clawing its way up his throat.

The man's eyes dart nervously back between the dark figure lying on the ground and the darker figure standing before him. Holding the weapon in one hand he reaches behind him for a thick, black object that crackles to life under his fingers. Loki watches that hand shake, amused.

"This is Agent 109 on patrol by gate C; we have an intruder by the South Entrance; unarmed male, black hair, taller than six foot." Keeping the rather insignificant looking metal stick aimed at Loki's chest, the guard bends down.

"Any current injuries?" The voice that floats back to them is garbled with interference.

"Cooper is breathing." The sentry says to himself more than anyone else, relief palpable in his tone; then, as if remembering his place, he speaks into the device. "Agent 56 is incapacitated. Blow to the head."

"We're sending back-up."

"Copy."

The patrolman hooks the object back along his belt; Loki is immensely entertained.

"Ok pal, start walking." The guard licks his lips, looking sickly and pale in the artificial glow, and motions the weapon towards the fenced entrance, which is beginning to open. Then his eyes dart for a moment to the dark, empty desert surrounding them. "Who the hell are you?" He repeats.

"Thor Odinson."

"I said no lies!"

Loki's grin goes dark, malevolent, crazy.

"I hardly ever lie."


	11. Chapter 11

**a/n:** hey guys another long overdue chapter, but i think this one might be the longest so far? i love bringing in other Marvel characters so much ahaha

but hey, your guys' reviews have been _amazing,_ thank you so much! some of them are so in-depth and all of them really help motivate me to write, so just, thank you for taking the time to do that. i'm sorry i can't respond personally to them :(

so, i'm being long winded. here is the chapter.

please read and review :)

* * *

><p>Inside, chaos.<p>

His hands are held firmly behind his back by thin iron manacles, which might prove to be problematic in the near future—but he's having too much fun at the moment, watching the mortals scurry around like mice in a fire, to really care. The sky rumbles overhead.

Are you watching, brother?

"This way." He's jerked roughly to the left, up metal stairs and onto a dark causeway leading to an array of tents leaning together under the growing wind. The man behind him still holds the mortal weapon to his side; five more flank him as they walk into a room lined with Midgardian technology.

Loki wonders if anything belongs to the mouse-girl waiting outside.

He also watches.

Three banks of machines, creating small aisles, all currently occupied. The tent has the opening from which they came, leading to the maze of metal causeways covered by thin, opaque white fabric, and, at the back, a door that slides open with a careless flick of one of his guard's flat identification devices. He's led inside.

The room is void of everything except a single metal chair, into which he is forced rather rudely. Full-length mirrors line the wall, and he nearly blanches at his reflection.

Dark circles underneath his eyes. Mussed hair. New, ugly mortal boots and jacket.

Helheim. He needed his old armor back.

"Don't even think about trying anything funny." As if to prove a point the guard shoves the butt of the weapon roughly into the side of his head so that his vision goes black for a moment. The jerking motion sends pain traveling down his side and causes him to bite his tongue until he can taste blood. The guards file out one by one, his assailant last, but just before the door slides shut Loki smiles thinly. "You will regret this night."

"Whatever, pal."

The door closes.

The silence that follows is unexpected, but not unwelcome. He gently presses himself back into the metal chair and begins to try and work his hands through the metal cuffs, but they do not budge; if anything, they get tighter. He's still attempting some time later when the door opens again with a soft hiss to admit the most unassuming, passive mortal he had yet to view on Midgard.

"I'm happy we got an excuse to use this room." The man says with the same tone that one would use to talk about the weather. Loki raises a single eyebrow but stops moving. "The others, they couldn't see why I wanted a police-level interrogation chamber built on site." The man takes out a pair of glasses, black and dull, and begins to shine them absentmindedly with one hand. "But I said, you can never be too cautious."

Loki leans forward, canting his head, studying the man before him. For a moment he can see into the room beyond, the flurry of activity, the swipe of the card and the movement of the guns, but then the door shuts.

"So I heard your name was 'Thor Odinson.'"

"It would seem. "

"What were you doing outside my base?"

He shrugs languidly, fighting a wicked laugh. "What are you doing in the desert?"

"That is classified information, I'm afraid."

"Interesting." His head is still cocked slightly; he's not looking at the figure across from him, but addressing the area near his left shoe. "You seem to run quite a large operation here…" He pauses, glancing up.

"Coulson. Agent Coulson. And I'm afraid if you don't give me some answers you will be detained for quite a long time."

"I will, perhaps, if you release my hands."

"Not happening. Sorry." Coulson smiles blandly, opening his jacket and placing his newly polished glasses gingerly inside.

"Then it seems I can be of no further help to you."

"We'll see how you're feeling in a few days, then, shall we?" Coulson presses his lips together in a polite smile and then leaves, just as suddenly as he came. Loki stretches back in the chair, wondering when the right moment to strike would be.

Overhead, through the roof and fabric above, a sudden blast of thunder rips the sky.

"If you insist, brother." The tugging in his gut is sudden; the air grows cold; he can sense the ice traveling in a thin crystalline pattern over the metal of his wrists; then, he pulls.

The shackles shatter and fall to the ground. He stands, rubbing the chafed skin, wondering why the mortals had to be the first to manage to imprison him in such a manner.

Stupid, troll-like race.

He walks to the door and presses it with the pads of his fingers, pulling the stolen identification device from his jacket pocket and swiping it; outside the world is still chaos; the man who had earlier smashed his head is standing watch by the entry, playing with the weapon in his hands, completely absorbed. Loki slips out as the door shuts. Those scurrying around the office do not take heed.

He sidles next to the guard who, sensing a presence, turns. Loki's grin is dark. "I believe I informed you that you would regret this night."

"Help—" The man begins to yell until Loki's flattened hand crashes into the side of his neck with a crack and he crumples to the floor. The men in plain suits who, previously, had been running about the banks of whirring machines stop at the noise. Loki places the identification card in his jacket pocket as all eyes turn to him.

The world explodes into bedlam.

* * *

><p><em>They are huddled in Thor's bed, underneath the large, ornate covering and the red gilt canopy. Loki pulls himself inward, collapsing his arms tightly across his chest as another raucous clack of thunder thrashes through the night sky. The rain pounds sideways against the balcony doors. There is a flash of lightning so bright he can make it out through the sheets draped over him. Next to him Thor frowns. <em>

_ "You aren't scared of the thunder, are you?"_

_ "Of course not!" Loki hisses back, but the devilish clapping above him sends his eyes crashing shut and Thor laughs. _

_ "That's foolish." Thor smirks, and Loki unlatches one arm to send it flying into his brother's chest. Taken off guard, the young blonde gasps, tumbling backwards and onto the golden floor in a twisted pile of sheets. Loki, ignoring the sound of the near-hurricane outside, peers over the edge of the bed with pursed lips. _

_"Not nearly so foolish as you being scared over that _stupid_ story Father told you."_

_ "It was not. Stupid!" Thor stands abruptly, nearly tripping at the mass around his legs. His fists are clenched. _

_ "Spirits of the dead do not come to converse with the living, you dolt." Loki whispers heatedly. Thor crosses his arms, trying to stand straighter. _

_ "They do on certain days—"_

_ "It was only a story." Loki sits further up in bed, rubbing at his face. Suddenly he goes stock-still; his eyes widen, looking over his brother's shoulder. He opens his mouth, for once unable to speak. Thor twists quickly with a gasp, falling roughly to the floor in his haste, only to find an empty room behind him. _

_ "Loki, I will _murder_ you!" Thor practically bellows, remembering only at the last minute that most of the palace was sleeping and he needed to keep his voice down. Loki collapses back onto the bed, laughing uncontrollably. The pounding rain drowns out all other noise as Thor jumps and makes to strangle his younger brother—_

_ The door opens. _

_ "Boys? What is—" Frigga steps into the room, which is lit by a sudden flash of intense lightning. "What is going on here?" Her voice is commanding. Immediately Loki's laughter ceases; Thor's hands drop to his sides. _

_ There is a moment of silence in which they boys look at each other, anger forgotten, until Frigga crosses her arms and says sternly, "I am waiting." Then:_

_ "Loki was too scared to sleep by himself with the storm going on." _

_ "Looks who's telling lies now! _You _were the one who couldn't sleep after Father's story!"_

_ "Not—"_

_ "Yes, yes it was—"_

_ "Boys!" Frigga steps into the room and shuts the door behind her. For a moment she is lost in the darkness until a warm yellow light springs forth from the fireplace grate, looking small and insignificant in the night. Loki sits up, trying to edge as far away from Thor as possible; with the new light he can spy the outline of the door connecting Thor's chamber to his own. _

_ "I cannot wait until I get my own room so I do not have to deal with you." His brother huffs, and Loki rolls his eyes. _

_ "Yes, then all our problems will be solved."_

_ "Enough." Frigga's steps are slow and deliberate. She bends to gather the pile of twisted sheets on the floor, then sends a pointed look in both of their directions. "You will earn your own chambers as a sign of maturity. When _both_ of you can sleep a peaceful night in a storm," here she looks at Loki, who turns away, "or after a frightening tale." Her gaze on Thor is equally as penetrating. _

_ Thor, needing the last word, whispers under his breath, "Baby."_

_ Loki frowns back at him. _

_ "Now, up, both of you—you've made a mess." The brothers comply. Frigga hands them each a corner of the blanket and together they replace the sheet on the bed. "There. Get in."_

_ Thor takes the far end. Loki the other. Both put as much space as possible between them. Frigga sighs, placing herself directly in between the two. "Brothers should never fight." She admonishes gently. "Nor should one ridicule the other for his faults." She taps each of their covered legs lightly. "Now, Loki, why are you so afraid of the storm?"_

_ He squirms uncomfortably, ignoring his brother's gaze. At last he manages, "It sounds as if the devils of the world are marching for me. As if they are angry." He doesn't like the jilted sound of his words. He glares quickly at Thor, as if daring his brother to laugh. _

_ "Well, my little trickster," Frigga smile is warmer than the blankets and the fire combined, "I have a feeling that one day your brother will hold more sway over the skies above then he does now—you should not fear them. Only know that it is your brother," she prods Thor gently, "being his usual self—"_

_ "Pig-headed." Loki mutters. _

_ "—challenging all in his path." Frigga raises an eyebrow and Loki sighs. "As for you, my little thunderer, do not fear the dead." _

_ "I fear being dead." Thor says simply. "Not _the _dead. Being unable to fight. To better Asgard."_

_Frigga's smile turns sad at the corners, but Loki suspects that only he notices. "They can not harm you, so long as you are here. And I think that our eloquent Loki could protect you from them if the need should ever arise."_

_ Thor mutters something incomprehensible. Loki watches the outline of the heavy rain against the balcony window._

_His sudden, irrational fear of before seems silly in the light of the growing fire._

* * *

><p>"They closed the gate to the city."<p>

"Do they think that will stop us?" Laufey is slightly amused at the turn that the events have taken. He laughs, and it is like a hundred pieces of gravel slamming into the thick, heavy Bifrost. "Foolish."

He surveys the observatory; the gateway is silent, but the rounded space is filled with his subjects, awaiting orders. He grasps the spear of Odin AllFather in his hand and steps slowly from the circular dais in the center of the room, pausing by the statuesque figure standing frozen amidst a sea of blue. "Ah, Heimdall. Powerful Gatekeeper. It would appear the AllFather overestimated your abilities."

The Aesir's golden eyes move deliberately behind their icy cage and Laufey lets out another condescending laugh. "I am enjoying this!" He finishes, voice scratching its way up his throat. "Immensely."

"What move should we take, my liege?"

He surveys the crowd, some spilling out onto the Bifrost. "We need the Casket. Without it, we cannot hope to achieve our goal."

"I believe we can conquer Asgard without it."

Laufey steps between his gathered troops, savoring the view of the golden spires of the great land beyond him—so cocky. So arrogant.

He doubts the son of Odin who visited him could have guessed it would come to this. He sets the shaft of Gugnir firmly against the opaque surface of the Rainbow Bridge, watching the colors crackle and change around the gold hilt.

"Asgard, yes." He turns a red-tinged gaze back at his followers. His smile is wolfish. "The Nine Realms? No."

* * *

><p><em>To be fair, the man had been asking for it. However, that didn't mean that Loki approved of his brother's response. <em>

_A mug shatters dangerously close to his head and he shrugs further behind the lip of the tavern counter, rough wood scratching at his green cloak. Next to him Thor is laughing, booming and ostentatious, as another ale jug smashes along the back wall. Behind them the sounds of a brawl grow. Loki pulls the cowl of his hood more tightly over his face but Thor—of course—has his own settled somewhere around his chin. _

"_Idiot." Loki hisses, tugging it roughly back up, narrowly avoiding a dagger as it sails towards the back wall. "Don't let them see you!"_

"_Lighten up, brother." Thor is like a child on his Name Day; his blues eyes are fire as he peers above their makeshift barrier. "It's only a bit of fun!"_

_And with that he bounds over the counter and into the fray. _

"_A bit of _fun_," he whispers harshly, "yes." And with that he, too, pulls himself up and over and into the middle of the fight. _

_His brother is already across the room, one hand gripping the old top to an ale cask, the other a torch sconce which he brandishes like it is one of the finest swords, advancing upon someone Loki cannot make out._

_He can, however, make out the figure approaching softly from behind, dagger glinting in the firelight. _

_Loki rolls, narrowly avoiding the swipe of a nearby blade; as he straightens his hand moves, twists, and he is compressed and pulled into an uncomfortably small shape and then back again—_

_His own metal knife clashes harshly with that of Thor's would-be assassin, and suddenly his brother is turning with another laugh, "Thank you, brother!"_

"_Yes, well," Loki grunts, throwing his weight and twisting so that the weapon flies out of the seedy looking man's hands, "someone needs to save you, I suppose."_

"_I'll repay you someday!"_

"_Hardly!" Loki sends a kick to the man's stomach so that he doubles over in pain, and then drops the hilt of his dagger onto the back of his neck. In the commotion the hood of his cloak had fallen back._

_So much for secrecy._

"_You can never do anything quietly, can you?" Loki snaps, twisting up and around and sending two bolts of liquid white-green at a large assailant who drops heavily to the floor. _

"_He insulted my honor." Thor had dropped his makeshift sword and shield and was now trying to wrestle a troll with his bare hands. His voice is a roar. "No one insults a son of Odin!"_

_The troll, teeth bared, flips Thor onto his back, pinning him against the wooden tavern floor; the whole place seems to shift slightly. The small brawls in the background grow distant. His brother struggles under the weight of a heavy, iron-booted foot; the beast pulls a fist back and prepares to send it smashing forward—_

"_You are such a _pain_." Loki ducks, reaches, grabs a hold of Thor's cape and cuts the magic, sending the two careening across the pub. They smash into barrels of ale, sending the sticky, sweet contents over the floor. The troll punches the empty floor with a scream of rage. _

"_I think we should go." Loki pulls off his cloak and drops it in the pile of ale. _

"_What are you doing?" Thor's eyes are still heady with adrenaline. _

"_Thinking. You should try it more often."_

"_Yes, well—"_

_Loki snaps and a torch flies from the nearest wall sconce into his outstretched hand. He glances up at his brother, eyebrows raised. "I suggest we run."_

"_The son of Odin never runs!"_

"_Then you can burn." Loki drops the flame onto his alcohol-drenched cape; the fire catches, sticks, and spreads to the broken barrels, licking at Thor's boots as he quickly pulls the blood-red fabric from his back. "No, no, you're right, I think we should run."_

_Loki cuts a string and the fire spreads more quickly, up the ceiling. Around them brawlers are stopping to shout and scream and—_

_No one notices their escape. _

* * *

><p>"Escapee, escapee!" One of the guards shouts into the black device on his belt. Loki studiously ignores him, and the other two that are slowly advancing, mortal weapons raised. He looks instead towards the bank of machines, their screens flashing bright red; he hears heavy boot falls outside.<p>

Time is of the essence.

"Back-up! I repeat, I need back-up in Sector 2!"

"Don't move, or I'll shoot." One of the guards says. Loki looks back at him, a single eyebrow raised, and inches towards the machines. "I said don't move!" Then:

He dives.

There is a small explosion as the weapon—gun, he thinks vaguely—discharges, its bullet ricocheting off several metal support beams and finally embedding itself into one of the flashing screens with a hiss. Smoke curls towards the ceiling.

"Stop shooting!"

"Where is he, though? _Where is he_?"

His side aches, jarred on impact, but years and years of battle training and sparring kick in, and he finds himself rolling automatically to his feet. As he pulls upright his hands grab the nearest monitor and he looks back at the advancing guard. "This looks important." He tries to sound serious.

It's just too damn _hard_.

"Don't you dare touch—"

He pulls.

Sparks, quick and hot; the screen detaches easily and he sends it across the room, scattering the onslaught of sentries. He moves, ducking around a small outlet of desks and coming up on the other side, hands stretched before him, gut tugging, wrenching, moving—

His breath fogs up the air.

"What the _hell_—"

Then silence.

He closes his eyes, because he doesn't want to see the blue skin receding down his arms, doesn't want to see a monster, and then everything stops. He blinks. Before him the three men are frozen solid, ice twisted and molded around their bodies, a living statuary.

The sky overhead rumbles its approval.

His side aches; more than that, he feels tired, drained in a way that he hadn't felt since first learning to use magic. He flips the identification device nimbly between his long fingers and adjusts his jacket. One hand smoothes back his hair. Then he walks.

He knows the trick that Thor never learned.

He knows how to hide in plain sight.

Outside the bank of tents he can hear the muted pounding of the help. He looks slowly in the direction of the sound and then continues the other way, across a wide, open area of dirt, the hastily erected gate on one side. He puts his hands in his pockets, the card tight in his grip.

He feels the power coming from the middle of the complex, directly between the plastic tubing. He cuts sharply right, up a small flight of stairs, and finds himself in another room filled with running machines only this one is empty. At the other end is an entrance back to the twisting, opaque tunnels.

He walks purposefully down the aisles, one exposed hand running lightly over the equipment, leaving a trail of frost in his wake.

Destruction.

The tunnels are a blinding white, back lit by an artificial spotlight, bathing the place in an eerie glow. He follows the twisting path, but the longer he does so without finding anything the more his heart begins to pound.

His face is still a passive mask.

Like always.

* * *

><p>"<em>Father doesn't love me."<em>

"_Loki! What a horrible thing to say!"_

"_He doesn't, Mother. When I showed him my magic, he only nodded."_

"_I'm sure he was very proud."_

"_No, when Thor showed him his sword work, he smiled."_

"_Loki."_

"_It's true."_

"_Believe what you want, but I know the truth, and the truth is this: your father will _always _love you."_

* * *

><p>"Barton!" Phil Coulson barks into his walkie-talkie, something he rarely ever does. After a moment the static crackles back to him and he shuts his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose with one hand and momentarily ignoring the frenzy surrounding him.<p>

"Yeah, boss?"

"I need eyes in the skies. Go."

There is silence on the other end as Barton loads into one of the cranes; Coulson hopes for the sake of the prisoner that the man chooses a sniper rifle and not a bow, but also knows that the chances of that are unlikely. "You up?"

"Yeah. What am I looking for?"

"Man. Six foot two, maybe six foot four. Black hair. Wearing standard issued boots." Coulson takes a sharp breath and begins to survey the damage, the three frozen guards, the malfunctioning equipment—"He's got some kind of weapon on him."

"I see him now, but no gun."

"No, no, some kind of device that freezes things." Coulson frowns at how unprofessional he sounds. "I don't know. I don't know anything about this guy."

"Cue rain."

Outside the thunder rumbles menacingly, and on the fabric overhang he can hear the steady, drum-like pounding of a sudden New Mexico storm. He sighs, because now they would be surrounded in twelve inches of mud, and that was the last thing he needed.

"Where is he?" He asks abruptly, sidestepping around two agents who were trying to unfreeze Jameson and Meyer with things that looked suspiciously like hair dryers.

"Outline through the tubing. Wait—he's coming out into the center area, by the relic."

"Damn. Take the shot."

"Wait, I want to see what happens."

"Barton, this is no time to question orders!"

"I'm not _questioning_, just hold on a minute."

"Don't tell me you're rooting for this guy." Coulson's grip on one of the metal support beams is so tight his knuckles turn a painful, pale shade of white.

"No, not yet."

"Status update. Send anyone over there." He quickly switches the talkie's frequency and says, feigning calm, "All available units to the relic crash site." Then he twists the knob again.

"Place is empty, boss, you have them all down by you." Barton's voice is slightly muffled by the rainfall.

"Shoot him now, or I'm going to come down there myself."

"I'd like to see that. He's approaching the relic."

"Barton, take the shot!"

"He's reaching for the relic." Something snaps on the other end of the line, like the tightening of a bowstring.

"And—"

"Barton!"

"—nothing." His voice sounds faintly disappointed. "Nothing happened."

"What do you mean, 'nothing happened?'"

"It means exactly what it sounds like." He hears small clicking noises, like Barton is folding up his bow. "He touched the relic. Nothing happened."

"What…" Coulson fades off, trying to make sense of things, but the world seems to be twisting dangerously, and his vertigo is apparent. "Alright. Keep an eye on him. Don't let him out of that area until I clean things up here."

"Roger."

Somebody taps his shoulder, an agent whose name he can't remember and doesn't really care to. He points to the walkie-talkie. "Someone's trying to reach you on channel five, Agent Coulson, sir."

"What now?" He mutters, almost angrily but not quite, knowing the way his luck is turning out tonight it would be Stark, showing up at his front door to play hooky from S.H.I.E.L.D. duties—

"—Agent Coulson, I repeat, Agent Coulson—"

"Here. What is it?"

"Another perimeter breach. We found her just outside the gate, in the direction the intruder came from—"

"Her?"

"A 'Jane Foster.'"

He pauses a moment, then presses firmly down on the 'talk' button.

"Bring her in."

* * *

><p><em>"I no longer look for Father's approval."<em>

_ "What?"_

_ "I no longer look for Father's approval. I shall continue the practice of magic. It is something I excel at. I do not care what he thinks."_

_ "You do, brother, you just won't admit it."_

_ "I admit that I no longer look for Father's approval. I shall never receive it."_

_ "Brother, sometimes you lie to yourself _much_ more than you lie to everyone else."_

* * *

><p>The rain hits him and drips off the edge of his nose and chin, almost like the sky is crying for him. He's knee-deep in mud and looking at—<p>

MjoInir. Shining and metallic and strong and powerful even on this godsforsaken spit of land they called Midgard.

He almost gives the handle one last tug but can't seem to get the energy to lift one of his arms above his shoulder. Instead his hands sink into the dirt and he stares at the thing he wants most in the world and the thing he will never, ever have.

He could have been great. Powerful, like his brother.

He's suddenly, irrationally angry, an emotion he hates and despises but that he can't seem to control, clawing up his throat; he's on his feet, giving one last almighty pull to the weapon embedded deeply in the dirt of the mortal realm.

There is a slight buzzing sound, about his ears, but that is all.

_"Only the worthy can wield the hammer."_

MjoInir does not budge.

He knows now his plan has failed. Without MjoInir he had no hope of returning to Asgard. The rain continues to beat a staccato pattern on his heavy jacket; he stares for a long moment at the smooth metal surface, forged in the heart of a dying star, worthy enough for _real_ warriors, like—

Like Thor.

He stumbles backwards, grace gone, plan broken, mind reeling, and suddenly something grazes his cheek, like a butterfly kiss, and smacks into the ground with a dull sort of sound. He wipes at his face, his fingers finding a thin pool of red blood trickling from his cheekbone, looking stark and brutal against the pale of his hand. He bends down for the item and pulls, from the deepening mire surrounding MjoInir, an arrow.

He glances up and can barely, through the veil of rain, make out a dark, suspended object that looks suspiciously like a human figure.

If he could not take MjoInir he could not stay here. He had to leave. Find the mortal outside. Regroup. Figure out what the AllFather did to Thor's weapon.

In this instance he could not be reckless and fight.

He sees no other option than to run; he doesn't start slowly, just takes one great, staggering leap towards the fabric tunnels, slipping and twisting a path through the mud. Something sharp finds its way to his back, causing him to stumble sideways, but then he is through, breaking the fabric, and heading towards one of the gates, any one of the gates—he tears through the other side and that's when he hears it—

"Let me _go_ you stupid son of a _bitch_!"

He pauses, automatically retreating to the nearest shadow, one hand reaching absentmindedly for the arrow embedded in his back. He pulls it out swiftly, hissing. The tip looks odd, strange, and he wonders faintly if it is drugged.

"I have constitutional rights!"

Annoying mouse of a girl—

"You can't just _detain_ me, I was on free soil!"

He finds her, then, small and insignificant looking, held up between two bulky guards, her hair plaster around her face, her eyes indignant, her mouth a deep frown.

She hides her fear rather well.

The rain is lessening to a soft, almost mist. He can see the gate, spies a broken spot where he could easily climb under—

"_Let me go!_"

He could get away—it would be simple, quick—he wouldn't have to look back, he could regroup on his own, not deal with the annoying race that had caused him so much trouble—

"Hey!"

His eyes track Jane Foster as she is dragged further into the facility.

Then they find their way back to the gate.

To stay?

Or go?


	12. Chapter 12

**a/n:** happy 11/11/11!

please read and review :)

* * *

><p>"What the <em>hell<em> do you think you're doing?"

For the first time in his life he's speechless. He stands limply in the dying rain, not even bothering to attempt escape as six guards suddenly swarm, and there he is, in the exact same position that he was at the first, only now there is an angry mortal girl glaring at him. They force his hands behind his back, twisting his arm in a way that it was not meant to be twisted, and then they begin to pat down his wrists, looking for whatever weapon had frozen their men, their machines.

But still, the girl.

"What do you mean?" He says at last, above the low din created by the guards. Two are holding the mortal, and they look sharply over at where he stands, between the veritable army that surrounds him. "I am saving you."

It is the most obvious thing in the world. Surely she sees this?

"No, you idiot," she bites her lip, hair falling around her eyes, "I had a _plan_. You were supposed to leave. I _thought_ you would leave, with the car." Her gaze becomes suddenly shrewd. "Why didn't you?"

Before he can answer his weapons check is over, and the two are dragged roughly the way he came earlier, towards the mirrored prison chamber. The room preceding it is flooded with a low-lying layer of water from the guards who are slowly being thawed. The mortal's eyebrows rise as she sees them, but then the door slides open and they are shown a seat, pushed roughly onto the floor.

"How am I not surprised that you two know each other?" The son of Coul is back in an instant, displeasure written in every line of his absurdly blank face. Loki rubs his wrists as the guards back out, leaving the three of them alone. The agent was not a large man, but from their vantage on the ground he appeared a giant. Rather angry at the whole situation, Loki begins to make to stand, defiant, except the mortal's small hand is suddenly on his knee, forcing him still.

"He's my cousin." She says at the same time as he deadpans:

"I do not know her."

He rolls his eyes in the silence that follows, glaring sideways at her. He opens his mouth to rectify her mistake except that suddenly a wave of dizziness hits him square between the eyes, and he's having a rather hard time sitting up much less trying to defend the stupid mouse of a mortal. He rubs the bridge of his nose, brushing her hand off his knee like it is some sort of diseased insect.

"I think you should stick to telling the truth." Coulson says, though his words sound funny, muted, garbled. "It's easier."

Loki blinks rapidly to clear his vision.

"You want to tell me how you did it?"

He raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

"You want to tell me," Coulson smiles blandly, "how you made some of my best trained men look like fools? How you froze three and evaded the rest?"

"I'm very good at what I do." He manages between clenched teeth.

The door slides open with a hiss; Coulson doesn't turn. Instead he continues to regard the two people sitting before him, blankly. A man in a black suit, like all the others, says, "There's a Dr. Selvig at the South Entrance Gate."

"Yes, let's just invite everyone here tonight." Coulson sighs exasperatedly, looking pointedly down at them. "I'll be back. If you try anything, they have the order to shoot."

The door hisses shut.

"Why didn't you leave?" It's the first thing out of her mouth. She hugs her knees, resting her chin upon them, and glances sideways at him.

"Enough of your inane questions." He's really had enough, and something in his voice must say he's telling the truth, because she doesn't press the matter. His vision is going double at the edges. He needs a distraction. "Care to tell me what your plan was?"

"I didn't really come up with it until they found me." She laughs nervously. "This breaking the rules thing is fun."

"They found you?"

"Now who's asking too many questions?" She pushes her hair behind her ear. "Yeah. They started doing perimeter sweeps after they took you in. Then the rain. I didn't hear them come up behind me. But when they took me in, I figured you could get out in all the confusion at least. But you didn't. So, thanks for following my plan and all."

"It was a horrible plan." He begins to drum his fingers along his knee, for something to do, to keep him awake. "And I assume that Dr. Selvig is your escape route?"

"Hopefully."

The word rings in the little cell and they are silent.

* * *

><p><em> "Once, mankind accepted a simple truth: that they were not alone in this universe. Some worlds man believed home to their Gods. Others they knew to fear. From around the cold and darkness came the Frost Giants, threatening to plunge the mortal world into a new ice age.<em>

_ "The realm of Jotunheim belonged to them, a realm of endless ice sculpted towards the sky in towering palaces. They were a culture of war, bred on death and despair. Their leader, Laufey, looked to plunge the Nine Realms into a new Ice Age, of which he would be king. He began with Midgard."_

_ "Why, Father?"_

_ "Because Midgard is a realm of beings with less power than our own. Laufey thought the mortals would be easily dispatched. He nearly succeeded in his quest."_

_ "Except you came!"_

_ "Yes; humanity would not face this threat alone. Our armies drove the Frost Giants back into the heart of their own world."_

* * *

><p>"Dr. Donald Blake?"<p>

Erik chuckles nervously; in fact, everything he's doing right now he's doing nervously. He rubs his hands together and smiles, smiles everywhere, looking to the side and around. He thinks he spies some of Jane's equipment underneath an Easy-Up. Agent Coulson coughs, and he turns quickly back towards him.

"Yep. Yep, he's Donald Blake alright."

There is a long, drawn out pause. Something seems to be flashing on the computer, something that Coulson is regarding with a smooth, blank face, but from his vantage point several steps below the hand-crafted metal bay Erik cannot see it. His stomach is twisted into several thick knots, his heart in his throat.

"He said his name was 'Thor.' And he knocked out one of my men outside, and _froze_ several in here. Care to explain?"

"F-froze?" Erik laughs, but it is a hard-pressed, forced laugh. "I don't know what you're talking about, but the Thor part—it's—well, it's his wrestling name. He just started taking some stuff, so he thinks he's invincible—"

"What stuff?"

"Sterioids!" He throws his hands out in a what-can-you-do sort of gesture. "He wants to bulk up like some of those WWE people."

He was never a very good liar.

"I see." Coulson says, though clearly he does not.

"Yep." He claps his hands together, fist against palm, fist against palm. After a moment more, in which Coulson's scrutinizing gaze sweeps him over one last time, the agent mutters something over his shoulder.

Erik waits patiently, the sky rumbling overhead, threatening another bought of rain. After a moment he hears, "I can walk, thank you."

Jane marches out first, her arms crossed over her chest, her hair rather damp and lank around her face. Loki follows more slowly, his gait labored, and even from this far back Erik can see he looks unsteady on his feet.

"Take care of yourself, Dr. Selvig." Coulson says, with a predator smile, and Erik has the sudden feeling that these people will know what they are doing every hour of every waking day for the next decade and he already misses his privacy.

"Come on, Jane." He says, pushing her in front of him.

"You take care too, Dr. Blake."

Despite his unsteadiness, Loki's sharp green eyes find his own. He opens his mouth, and in that refined British-like accent he says stiffly, "Of course." He looks back to Coulson, challenging.

They pass the Easy-Up with Jane's equipment underneath, and Erik can sense her going tense, wanting so badly to go to it and knowing she can't. Loki lags a few steps behind; he turns to tell him to hurry up, they need to leave, and catches the man shoving something into his jacket, like an after-thought, but maybe he was only seeing things—

"Oh, and Dr. Selvig?"

"Yes?" He forces himself to remain calm, to turn slowly back towards Agent Coulson. Everything stops.

"Keep him away from the bars."

"Ha, yes! Yes we—"

Loki falls forward.

"Oh my God." Jane is at is side immediately, hands flitting around his wrists, checking for a pulse. Erik notices none of the S.H.I.E.L.D agents move. Coulson's bland little smile is still on his face.

"Must be all those steroids, huh?" He says. Erik's smile is pressed paper-thin.

"Yes. Must be."

* * *

><p><em>"What does their world look like, Father?"<em>

_ "It is ice."_

_ "Only ice?"_

_ "Ice and stone, stretching endlessly and unforgiving into the distance. It is stark and plain, like the people who inhabit it. But strong. Also, like the people who inhabit it."_

_ "That isn't possible. The Frost Giants are monsters; they can't be strong. They aren't people."_

_ "We cannot judge for what others are and what they are not, for how they look and seem. It is their actions that define them, and by those we must judge."_

_ "Well, they had no good actions."_

_ "They are misunderstood."_

_ "They tried to conquer the Nine Realms!"_

_ "Under the leadership of a foolish King."_

* * *

><p>"Thor, they are coming up the Bifrost."<p>

"Are the guards posted at the gate?"

"Yes, but there are more Jotuns than we expected. I do not imagine they can hold them off for long."

Thor settles in his armor, new and gleaming, and paces large strides across the throne room. Sif looks on, her hair pinned back, her staff ready. When he says nothing she continues, "I must go and help them."

"No!" He twists suddenly. "You can't."

"And why not?" She raises her eyebrows. "They need our aid, Thor. Fandral, Hogun, and Volstagg are taking charge of the city and the palace. The place will be well-fortified by the time the gate is broken." She spies his look. "It _will_ be broken, Thor. You know this."

"Then I shall go with you."

"No!"

It is his turn to raise his eyebrows. "I am king. And I shall speak to Laufey. I must speak with Laufey."

Sif nods, slowly, and he can tell that she is not pleased, but there is nothing much he can do about that because neither is he. Sudden, heavy footfalls in the throne room and Fandral is there, and Hogun, and Volstagg, and the immense hole is back in his chest.

"We are evacuating the city into the halls of the palace, women and children first. The Aesir is ready for your command." Fandral has never been so serious in his entire life, and it is then that Thor knows that his friends must be experiencing fear. He claps his hands.

"I want an extra division sent to fortify the gate; mayhaps we can stop them there, and then this will be over before it even begins." He finds strategizing immensely difficult; normally he would find it boring, as well, but nothing of late had been boring.

Why did his brother have to go and get himself _banished_ at a time like this?

"And what of us?" Hogun is steady, as always, his hand gripping his mace, waiting patiently for orders. Thor looks at the faces he has known for nearly forever and tries a confident smile.

It is rather like a grimace.

"I shall take Sif to the front gate, where we will make a stand. I must have words with Laufey. As for you three, I give you command of the army till I return. The frost giants will be many in number, but we must not let them touch the palace."

"Aye."

Thor is about to reach for MjoInir, to twirl it in his hands and send himself flying towards his goal, when he remembers that he no longer has that luxury. He clenches his fist. There is a moment in which no one speaks, and only the sound of the metal clank of weapons as the guards move quickly to assigned positions, filtering in from the halls outside, is apparent. Then:

"I am sorry." The word is foreign on his tongue. "I truly am. I brought Asgard to the brink of war, the likes of which it has not seen in its history. I have brought this plague upon us." He looks up. "And I have let you all down. I hope one day, you will find it within yourselves to forgive me."

He walks quickly from the throne room and doesn't look back.

* * *

><p><em>"It doesn't matter, anyway. You won."<em>

_ "I would not call it 'winning.'_ _The cost was great. In the end, their king fell, and the source of their power was taken from them."_

_ "That's how you lost your eye."_

_ "Yes. That is how."_

_ "And that's how you got the Casket of Ancient Winters!"_

_ "Yes."_

_ "I'm glad you defeated the monsters, Father."_

* * *

><p>"He's heavy, for being so skinny."<p>

"What do you think happened?"

"I don't know. Tranquilizers, I guess?"

"Hell of a tranquilizer, then." Jane throws Loki's feet rather unceremoniously onto her small, trailer bed; Erik follows with his head, and then the two back out into the night air. "He'll be ok though, right?"

"Should be fine, once it wears off."

They head immediately into the lab, which is still too stark and too empty. Jane slumps into the nearest chair, her eyes heavy, needing a shower and some sleep but knowing that she's too wound up to attempt either. Erik sits across from her.

"Thank you."

He looks up, and his eyes are more tired than hers. "I told you not to mess with him. I told you to leave him alone."

"I know."

"Yeah, you know."

"He said he was from another world, Erik."

"Jane, he's a crack-addict. He's a meth-addict. I don't know what kind of addict he is, but he's some kind. Loki Odinson? That's a name from the myths I grew up with! The trickster god, who messes with his brother Thor and who has Odin for a father. Jane they are myths. And they are only that—myths!"

"But you're the one who's always pushing me to chase down every possibility, every alternative."

"I'm talking about science, not magic."

"Well, 'Magic's just science we don't understand yet.' Arthur C. Clarke."

"Who wrote science fiction."

"A precursor to science fact!"

"In some cases, yeah." He doesn't look easy with admitting she's right; Jane pushes on.

"Well, if there's an Einstein-Rosen bridge, then there's something on the other side. And advanced beings could have crossed it!"

"Oh, Jane."

And she knows in that moment what he's thinking: that she's willing to believe anything, even the ravings of some lunatic they picked up in the desert, just to prove her theory, her point. That she wants it _so badly_ she just went over the edge, from credible scientist to easy believer. She stands abruptly. "I'm going to bed."

She walks towards the stairs.

"You should too."

* * *

><p><em>"Monsters."<em>

_ "Yes, well, that's what they are. The Jotuns need to pay for all that they've done."_

_ "Would you ever be friends with a Jotun?"_

_ "No!"_

_ "Do not look so surprised boy, it might actually happen."_

_ "It will never happen."_

_ "I do not deny that they can be monstrous in form and in function—"_

_ "See!"_

_ "—but that is no reason to discount their race entirely. Peace, peace is important."_

* * *

><p>The area directly behind the large gate is clogged with warriors, standing stock still in full battle regalia, spears and swords and shields clenched in their hands. They part for him like a wave; he can feel Sif's sharp gaze on the back of his neck.<p>

There are too many steps leading to the top of the battlements.

There are too many people watching him.

There are too many Jotuns on the other side.

Their blue forms clog the Bifrost, extending in a thick formation from the Observatory, and at the sight of it he thinks immediately of Heimdall, hopes he is alright, that he somehow survived all of this, but then a voice pulls him from his thoughts.

"Is that you, Son of Odin?"

Thor steps up to the parapet and looks down. Laufey is smiling back up at him.

"It is." The giant chuckles. "How very convenient. We were just going to tear down your wall."

"What is it you want, Laufey? I do not wish to fight."

"Why the sudden change in heart?" His voice goes deadly soft. "You brought this on yourself, Thor Odinson. We come only to claim what is rightfully ours."

Sif is suddenly at his side, her knuckles white on her staff. "The Casket?" She whispers underneath her breath.

"Yes." He raises his voice. "The Casket of Ancient Winters in no longer in Asgard."

There is silence, broken only by a laugh that makes his skin crawl, that sounds like a thousand metal points sliding down smooth, unfettered glass. He grips his borrowed weapon more tightly in his fist. "You expect us to believe this? From the liar's brother? From the one who wanted nothing more than to wipe our race out entirely?"

"I speak the truth, Laufey." Thor doesn't know what words to use. Doesn't know what to say that'll make him believe. "If you want, I will escort you myself to the Vault. You may see that your precious Casket no longer resides there. Then you will leave."

A child's wish.

"I do not like being lied to, Son of Odin." Laufey growls, and his deep, very red, very angry eyes are suddenly meeting his own. "I do not like being the most worthless race in the Nine Realms. Through your actions today, you will allows us to reclaim our place as rightful KINGS!"

And with the final word his jumps, springs, his arm freezing into a deadly thin blade, his height carrying him onto the battlements; behind them the giants roar in monstrous glee and it is all that Thor can do to roll, push up, dodge; he's on the defensive, and the Asgardians behind him shout as the gate is battered by a hundred bodies, and he can just barely hear Sif over the din—

And he knows it is only the beginning.

* * *

><p><em>"With the last great war ended, we withdrew from the other worlds and returned home at the Realm Eternal, Asgard. And here we remain as the beacon of hope, shining out across the stars. And though we have fallen into man's myths and legends, it was Asgard and its warriors that brought peace to the universe."<em>

_ "Peace. I'd rather destroy those monsters!"_

_Loki listens to his brother and father from the dark, and wonders if he has to be from Jotunheim to be a monster. _

* * *

><p>He wakes up in pieces. He rolls his fingers, pushing himself upright. He's in a small space he recognizes, the mortal girl's chambers, compact and thin. Moonlight, bright from the low orb hanging in the sky, spills through the window.<p>

His head aches. His mouth is dry. He thinks back to the arrow the man managed to hit him with and knows immediately it must have been drugged.

He doesn't even have the energy to feel disgusted at the events of the night. He rubs the bridge of his nose and stands, hand flying to the wall to steady himself as the world tilts dangerously. He moves slowly.

Outside the air smells wet and damp; the clouds are clearing as quickly as they had come, and the stars are flashing back on overhead. His boots crunch the gravel.

"Oh, hey, you're up."

He looks up; on the roof above him, backlit by a warm, flickering orange light, the mouse of a girl peers down.

"Yes." He tries speaking.

"You don't like to sleep through the night, do you? I thought that you'd be out for awhile."

"I was awake; so I got up." He says it like it's the most obvious logic in the world, and really, it is; he doesn't like to waste time, likes less being left alone, because that means that he has time to think about things he doesn't want to think about. "I do not see you sleeping much either."

"Come up." She points to the door. "The stairs are at the back."

He considers not; considers just turning around and going back in the little, metallic chamber and sleeping for the rest of his miserable time here in Midgard, but instead he follows the trail of her finger, slowly, his steps labored, because there is still a fog floating heavily around his head. His side is a dull, continuous sort of ache. He opens the glass-fronted door and feels his way forward in the dark,

The roof is circular; the orange light spills from a small fire pit in the center. The girl is pulling over a flat chair next to one already lying by the miniature blaze. He waits at the entrance, stock still, until she says, "Well come on, don't just stand there."

He walks forward and sits heavily, grateful to be off his feet. The world spins for only a moment.

The fire cracks and sparks. Overhead, the stars. He watches them for a long second, and then turns back to the girl. "Your plan worked."

"I never doubted it for a second." She smiles, but it isn't really a full smile, sort of sad along the edges. "Did you see all my stuff? They had it, sitting out in the rain."

"Ah. Yes, I almost forget." He doesn't know why he's doing this. There is no rational explanation for it. But he doesn't feel much of anything right now, just a hole that sits heavy and gaping in the middle of his chest. "This is yours, is it not?"

He pulls out her book; the little bound journal, the one that had been sitting haphazardly on a pile of broken machines. For a moment her mouth drops, then her eyes light up and she grabs it eagerly, flipping through the worn pages.

"Thank you." She says, exhaling.

"It's not much; there is no need for thanks."

He doesn't tell her it makes him feel uncomfortable.

"No, this—this is everything! I don't have to start from scratch now." She meets his eyes. "Thank you."

"Do you come up here much?" He says rather abruptly. She settles back into the chair, looking up at the stars but stroking the leather cover of her journal absentmindedly with one hand.

"I come up here when I can't sleep, or when I'm trying to reconcile particle data, or when Darcy is getting on my nerves." She laughs. "I come up here a _lot_ actually."

"It is very peaceful." He admits, because he cannot think of anything else to say.

She looks over at him.

She's not going to ask it, but he knows what she's thinking. He reaches wordlessly for her book, opening it to a blank page and holding his hand open expectantly.

"What?" She starts, confused.

"I require a quill."

"Fresh out." She pulls a thin looking object from the front cover. "You're stuck with a pen."

"Crude."

"Of course."

He takes the instrument between his fingers and presses down, drawing firm lines in the shape of a tree that made up most of the stories of his childhood. "You call it science. Your ancestors called it magic. Where I come from, they are one and the same."

He draws small orbs protruding from each branch, exactly how his father explained it to him all those years ago, when he was young and younger and better, so much better—

The pen stops; she's holding the top of it, firmly. She says, "What were you looking for, in the S.H.I.E.L.D complex?"

"I was not—"

"No avoiding the subject."

"Stupid girl." He sets down the pen, holding the book limply between his bent knees. After a moment:

"My brother is the bravest warrior in all of the Nine Realms."

She doesn't stop him, which is good, because if she did he thinks he would never again speak on the subject, and as it is he doesn't know _why_ he's telling this obstinate mortal—

"He wields MjoInir, forged in a dying star, a hammer that can shatter realms, raze cities."

He nearly drops the notebook.

"I felt that with it, I could get off this planet. But only the worthy can wield it."

His looks up at her.

"And I am not worthy."

He begins to take up where he left off on the page, determined to forget the failure of this night, but the girl won't let him. "Are you jealous?"

How he hates that word. He answers, but he doesn't, as he does normally. "I am not as good as my brother."

She bites her lip, thinking. A small breeze, smelling of wet dirt, pushes her hair around her face and she shoves it back, annoyed. After a moment:

"You were never supposed to be your brother."

He retraces the line he drew to represent Yggdrasil and doesn't look up.

"So stop trying to be something you're not."

"I—"

"Just be Loki. That's enough." There is a simple truth in her words. Logic, before him, that he is afraid to face. She rubs her arms and moves closer to the fire; when she looks up at him her lips are pursed. "Even if that means you _are_ being an ass, most of the time."

His face is blank, but he can't seem to stop looking at her. Then:

"Do you want me to explain this to you, or not?"

Jane Foster smiles.


	13. Chapter 13

**a/n:** thank you for your awesome reviews and faves and story alerts!

the new avengers posters came out. Loki looks like a bamf.

anyway.

please read and review :)

* * *

><p>The monster picks her up by the shoulders, two large hands wrapping fully around her arms, and, without so much as a grunt, tosses her roughly out of his path; years of training kick in and she closes in on herself, hitting the ground at a roll and skidding to a stop on her feet. She wipes the blood from her chin and stands, extending her staff.<p>

Between her and the creature there is a mob of blue mixed with regalia gold, several Aesir fighting one Frost Giant, and it doesn't take a battle expert to see that they are woefully outnumbered. She springs forward, embedding the tip of her staff into one of the cracks between the paving stones, and vaults up in a high arc towards the beast that threw her. She kicks him square in the chest with both booted feet, which is much like hitting the concrete wall of the practice field at full force, and the monster doesn't even flinch; she barely catches herself in time to tip backwards into a flip, but, then, it's only her upward swing that counts—

Her staff arcs, lances, and connects. There is a spatter of dark blue blood. The creature falls heavily forward.

Sif thinks they are in trouble. And she doesn't think that often.

She looks for Thor's figure amid the death and dying and fighting and spies him several yards off, fending off three beasts at once with nothing but a long sword. He's laughing wildly, which she takes to mean he is all right, so she turns backwards and thrusts her weapon into the side of the nearest Frost Giant. The Aesir do the rest.

"Fall back!" she shouts above the din of battle, but nobody hears her and she can barely hear herself. It is only the clash of metal, the screech of ice, the screams, the grunts, the yells—

And Thor's wild laughter, above it all.

They _had_ to keep them from reaching the palace.

"Need a hand?" The voice is sudden and direct in her ear. She starts forward ungracefully, narrowly avoiding the hand of a Giant that is frozen into a spiked, metal mace resembling Hogun's weapon of choice. She comes up on the other side, turning just in time to see Fandral whip his rapier in an arc once for the arm, twice for the stomach, and thrice to send it driving home to the heart.

"What in Odin's _name_ are you doing out here?" She can't help but screech, even though she prefers to be calm and collected—but then, now really isn't the time—"You are _supposed_ to be protecting the AllFather!"

"Duck, love," he says, and for a moment she thinks that adrenaline, bloodlust, got to him as well, for he is more like himself than he has been in days. She complies, feeling a breath on her neck as his sword passes over her to nick at another enemy. "The AllFather has Volstagg and Hogun to do that."

"Then the others—"

"Have an army to do that. You and Thor, on the other hand, have only this contingent of guards." Fandral takes a moment to adjust one of his arm graves, smiling wickedly. "And they seem to be doing a poor job of it."

"So help me, Fandral, if anything happens to the palace—"

"Just once it would be nice for _someone_ to be grateful for my help." He remarks blithely, before dancing away into battle.

She tries to take stock of things for a moment, but she cannot tell where exactly they stand on the path, can only see the front gate in the distance, so twisted and broken at the seams that she can see the Bifrost glimmering weakly on the other side, and the ground lined with bodies of the Aesir, bodies of the Jotuns—

Too many. Too many, too many, too many—

"Sif!" Thor roars, closer now than before, and, without even thinking, she springs lithely forward, slashing at the back of the nearest monster's knees and sending it collapsing to the ground. Thor finishes it off with one cut of his blade. "Where's Laufey?"

"I do not know!" She manages back between heavy breaths. "I have not seen him since the battle's start—"

She is stopped by a yell.

The scream is like nothing she has ever heard, echoing over the battlefield; there is pain in her ears and she shuts her eyes against the noise, fighting a shiver. Then, inexplicably, suddenly—

Everything stops.

She feels the bulk of Thor at her side and tries to get her arm to move, to ready herself, but the Frost Giants have all ceased their advance and so the Aesir have ceased theirs too; the battlefield is at a standstill that would be comical in a different circumstance.

"What…?" But she can't get her voice above a whisper. She looks at Thor but he does not look back, only stands straighter, staring ahead.

"Odinson."

Laufey emerges from a mass of blue near the Bifrost, materializing quite abruptly. His face is blank, passive, but his eyes are red and angry and hateful.

"Laufey." Thor stands steady. Sif does not know if it is bravery or stupidity that keeps him from faltering. "Is something the matter?"

"Where is it?" There is a constrained sort of tension underlying the other king's voice.

"What?" Thor tries to sound innocent, but cannot pull it off.

"You know of what I speak." Laufey walks deliberately forward, and the monsters part obediently for him. One Aesir stands bravely in his way, and Sif has to muffle a cry as Laufey picks him up by the arm and smashes him roughly against the ground. "Where is the Casket?"

"I told you. It is no longer on Asgard."

"I have been to the Vault." Laufey starts, the dirt and grass beneath his feet frosting up and turning an ugly black. At his words Sif starts, sharply turning her head to the side and trying to find Fandral through the crowd. She catches a hint of blonde-green, but that is all. "And it is not there. Obviously you have hid it from me somewhere else in the palace. Where. Is. It?"

"I do not know."

"You are in no place to test me, Son of Odin; _where is it_?"

"I do not know."

"I will kill you where you stand, you foolish, stupid boy—"

"Loki!" Sif steps forward, her voice nearly shrill in the silence. "Loki has it. The AllFather sent it away—"

"You mean the liar is not here?"

"Sif!" Thor hisses under his breath.

"Tell me now." Laufey whispers, his breath sounding like an icy wind coming in from the ocean. "Or I will kill the girl, Thor Odinson, and make you watch."

The familiar bulk is suddenly blocking her view of the king; her face still burns with the shame of her words, but, somehow, Thor's broad shoulders make her feel safer. "You will not touch her." He growls.

"Then tell me truly: if your brother has the Casket, and he is not on Asgard, then _where is he?_"

Sif didn't know. She didn't know if Loki had the Casket.

But it made too much sense, the pieces, the puzzle, for him _not_ to have it.

"He was banished by my father." Thor grits out. "The Casket followed soon after."

"To what realm?"

"I don't—"

"To what realm?"

Thor stands straighter. There is a heavy pause. Then: "I will no longer speak to you on the matter."

He twists, grabbing her by the upper arm, and pulls, so that she stumbles into his back as they dive for a small topiary that was probably placed along the path by Frigga but that now resembled something more of an ice sculpture—

"BRING HIM TO ME!"

And with that the battle resumes with a passion she didn't think was possible, but she can only hear it; Thor is pressing her roughly into the ground. She slaps at him with the flat of her hand.

"Thor, damn it, let go of me—"

"No! Listen, Sif—"

"I am sorry, do you hear? I didn't mean to accuse your brother—"

"But it makes sense that he would have it!" Thor shakes her shoulders fiercely, pulling her farther back behind their makeshift hiding place as three Aesir battling one Giant push by. "You must find him, warn him—"

"_What_?"

"—because we cannot let the Casket get into Laufey's hands! Do you understand me?" His voice is heated and low. "Because we still have a chance, however slim, if we act _now_."

"WHERE IS THE BOY?"

Sif looks to the side, over Thor's shoulder, and then says, "The Observatory's taken. We cannot access the paths between the realms—"

"I can give you a chance." Thor lets her go and sits back. His words are rushed, hurried. "I can give you a chance," he repeats, "and hopefully there will be few Jotuns guarding the Bifrost."

"Thor, you speak madness." She sits up, readjusting her staff. "I will _not _leave Asgard, I will _not_ leave the AllFather, and I will _not_ leave you!"

"Sif." He is wearing a look, unreadable, that she has never before seen on him. "You must. They will find the Casket otherwise. Then Asgard is lost—and so are the other Realms."

"I can't—"

"Yes." He cups her cheek, and the touch is unexpected. She almost shies away except he brushes away the blood pooling along her cheek bone. "You must. It is the only way. You must warn my brother."

"But Thor." She states dully, her cheek incredibly warm, her face flushed, and, with the battle raging around them, she can only think:

_This is why I could never become a valkyrie. _

"But Sif." He smiles warmly, and before she even knows what is really happening he presses his lips to hers quickly, too quickly—then he stands and sprints into the battle with a roar of, "At least make it a challenge for me!"

She moves because she can no longer stay still.

The Frost Giants converge on Thor's grinning figure, and she darts under their arms, heading for the gate, for the Bifrost. She spies a head of blonde, a flash of green, and she screams, "Fandral!"

Her friend turns; without needing further invitation he dispatches his enemy and bounds towards her. Together they run for the Rainbow Bridge, which looks weak and ugly in the twilight. As they pass the threshold, crumpled parchment gates on either side of them, she turns back—

The battle is frozen again. Thor is in the middle of it, held between two Jotuns, mouth bloodied, eyes closed—

"No." She stops, makes to turn, only Fandral's there, clutching her arm and tugging her the other way.

"I'm guessing that whatever he wanted you to do, it wasn't that." He pulls her forward. "Come on, Sif, he will be fine—"

And turning her head is the hardest thing she has ever done in her life.

She tries to ignore the wetness on her cheeks because, Hel and damnation, she _doesn't cry_, and Fandral seems to be trying to ignore it too, because he asks, "What _does_ he want us to do?"

"Warn his brother." She says, her words clipped, her voice thick. "Stop them from getting the Casket."

"We do not know where Loki is, though. We have one in nine chance of picking it correctly. I'd say the odds are not in our favor." He pauses, panting. "What about Alfheim?"

"He wouldn't be on Alfheim. The Light Elves are as proud as Loki; no place to teach him a lesson."

"Nidavellier?"

"There _is_ only one obvious choice, Fandral. You know it; I know it."

"Yes. But I do hate Midgard. It does nothing for my complexion."

Behind her she hears a roar of pain, the scream from earlier, and, like a breath on the wind, two words:

"Kill them."

* * *

><p><em>Baldr is feeling invincible and this puts Loki in a foul mood. <em>

"_Again." The blonde smiles, beautiful and bright; Loki snorts, annoyed, shrugging further into his corner and his book. _

"_Ridiculous." He bites out under his breath. Thor complies to his younger brother's wishes with a laugh; Loki tries to ignore it, but he can't help but look up, watching, half-hoping that this time the sword won't miss—_

_But it does._

_As usual. _

"_I'm invincible!" Baldr crows as Thor's sharp, glittering blade is pushed deeply into the ground, where several other similar marks already mar the practice field. There is not even a slight shimmer in the air around the young blonde; nothing to hint at a force field, drawn up by magic; it is as if Thor's aim is consistently, incredibly bad. _

_Loki frowns as the cloud cover overhead, which had heretofore provided a nice shade, moves slowly to the right; he blinks heavily in the light, idly snapping his fingers. The cloud moves back into place. _

"_Did you see that, Loki?" _

_He does not miss the smug smirk on his brother's face. _

"_Yes, Baldr." He doesn't look up, turning a page in his book. "Though I hardly count it as a talent."_

"_I'm invincible." The boy repeats, and Loki tries to focus on the book in front of him, spells and chants he's never heard of, but his anger simmers below the surface.  
><em>

_Thor laughs heartily, tossing a blunt blade, hilt forward, to Baldr. "Invincible or no, you must become better with a sword."_

"_Why? Nothing can harm me."_

_Odin, but the boy had more arrogance than Thor. And Loki cannot take it._

"_You think that because Mother extracted that promise from us at the banquet that you are automatically saved from any and all harm?" He hisses, rising, book falling shut to the ground. "Helheim, but your humble nature knows _no_ bounds." The sarcasm is heavy, tangible. Baldr swings the sword idly at his side. Thor moves towards him._

"_Loki, calm down—"_

"_He's just frustrated." Baldr smiles sweetly. "Frustrated because he cannot understand the magic that protects me."_

"_Yes. As you are apparently the new sorcerer, your nibs, please explain." Loki keeps his face blank, but inclines his head haughtily._

"_Mother drew a promise from you, yes, but what protects me now is ancient magic, an oath from every thing, living or no. My death dreams have stopped."_

"_And so swords bounce away from you as if repelled; I'm utterly amazed." Loki crosses his arms. "But I'm sorry, little brother, I highly doubt that Mother could have extracted a promise from everything in the Nine Realms."_

"_It's ancient magic," Baldr says, suddenly defensive, "I do not pretend to know how it works. That should be _your_ job."_

"_So I am hungry. Are you hungry?" Thor looks pleadingly at the both of them.  
><em>

"_I believe I shall make it my job." Loki smiles, and it is all teeth and all thin and all sharp. "How about a deal, brother?"_

"_No. Loki, no deals, no deals with anyone, I know your deals—the last one had me scrubbing floors for a week and the one before that turned Sif's hair black—"_

"_Be quiet, Thor, and let Baldr answer."_

"_A deal?" _

"_Yes. A deal. I am prepared to wager that I can find something that can pierce that impenetrable magic of yours."_

"_Alright, then." Baldr says almost immediately. "But only because I know you won't."_

"_This is a bad idea—" Thor tries, but Loki cuts him off immediately._

"_Should I win, I will place a spell of silence on you for a fortnight."_

"_Deal. And if you can find nothing, you will have to sweep out the stables for me."_

"_You are bad at making these wagers, little brother." The smile hasn't left his face. Thor looks worried. _

"_Deal."_

* * *

><p>"What's it like? Living in the stars?" Jane settles back against the chaise-lounge and looks up. She pictures it, a million different points of light, twinkling in the distance, so close, yet so far—she pushes herself sideways. Across from her, in the flickering orange of the fire, Loki thumbs through her journal, the myriads of notes, the pictures, the calculations. The sharp bridge of his nose points downward, eagle-like. She smiles against her hands, folded up under her cheek like a pillow. "When I was younger, and my father was still alive, I would stay up at night and dream about it. Different worlds. Stuff like that."<p>

He pauses on a page, methodically. She tries to see what he's suddenly so interested in, but can't make it out in the shadows.

"Did you ever have dreams?" she wants to take it back the moment it comes out of her mouth.

God, Jane, what a _stupid_ question.

"One, that is a stupid question." He says, still looking down at the journal hanging by the tips of his graceful fingers between his knees. "Two, these are Asgard's star patterns."

She sits partway up, looking at the page in question. "I copied it over from when you fell."

"I used to look at the stars often." He says quite suddenly. "I was more of a student than my brother."

"Look up." He glances toward her, annoyance written on his features, and she motions upward with the path of her eyes. The sky above is clear New Mexico, all traces of the storm gone. "Do your stars look like that?"

"All stars look like that. They are nothing special. Nothing is anything special." He says blandly, turning back to the book. "Your mortal eyes cannot understand their brilliance, in the end. To you they are dull points of light that can barely be seen. To the Asgardians they shine close enough to be touched."

"Don't say that."

"What?"

"That I don't understand their brilliance." She rubs her hands together, twisting around to her back. "Of course I do. Otherwise I wouldn't be following a trail of supposed Einstein-Rosen Bridges, risking my credibility—"

"It is, in all technicality, a Rainbow Bridge."

"Excuse me, I'm sorry, I thought you said rainbow."

"I did."

"Do you have unicorns, too? X-ray vision? Leprachauns?"

"No. But we do have god-like strength. And we tend to be unnaturally good looking."

There is a long moment of silent, in which she turns her head slowly to the man across from her, who is still eyeing the star chart in front of him; then she bursts out laughing. "I think you just made a joke."

"Perhaps." He says dryly.

"The world must be ending."

He darkens. "Not yet."

And then he retreats back into himself and she sighs, looking back at the night and extending one arm in a straight-arrow point to the sky. "Big Dipper." She says, tracing the outline with her hand, cradling it in her palm. "Orion's Belt." She moves on. "Ursa Major."

"Excuse me?"

"Our constellations."

"Garmr, the dog." He looks back at the book and begins to thumb through more pages. "Gold-Bristle, the boar. Audumla, the cow. VedrfoInir, the hawk."

"What?"

He rolls his eyes. "Try to keep up with the conversation."

"I am!"

"My constellations." He frowns, flipping the book upside down. "I studied them, but was drawn to sorcery more than astrology." He reaches the end of the book and shuts the cover. She watches through the corner of her eye as he rubs the leather with a thumb.

He hands the book back rather stiffly.

"The calculations are quite impressive." He says at last.

"I know." She smirks, taking the journal back and settling it across her legs. A slight breeze picks up off the desert and she shivers, despite the fire.

When the jacket hits her in the face she sputters, startled. She pushes it away from her mouth, smelling wet dirt and metal and something faint she can't quite identify. Her eyes are wide as she looks across the fire at him. Loki rubs his neck uncomfortably.

"Aren't you cold?" Is all she can manage.

"I'm never cold." He settles back on the lounge chair, suddenly, intensely interested in the fire.

She shrugs, settling the heavy jacket around her arms, yawning, then: "Tell me about Asgard."

"I feel I have done enough talking for one night."

"I'll tell you about Midgard."

"I have no interest in this Hel-hole."

"It's not _that_ bad."

"Honestly. Be quiet."

She complies, but only just.

"The city is gold." He starts, then stops, then starts again. "We are the gods from your mortal myths."

Sometime later, when she is floating between sleeping and waking, she thinks she hears, "Thank you, Jane Foster."

But then, it might be a dream.


	14. Chapter 14

**a/n:** guys, i'm really sorry. i've been having a rough go of things lately and i haven't had time to write. i wrote an extra extra long chapter to make up for it! ahaha in fact...i hope it isn't too long. whelp.

so, yeah. i'm sorry again!

please read and review :)

* * *

><p>The landing is not graceful; instead she tips sideways, staff digging into the ground, tumbling to her knees in earth that is more dirt than sand. She rights herself, quickly, because she knows that they have no time—<p>

"Fandral!" She tries to catch her breath, but the journey on the Bifrost always leaves her a little dizzy and she can't stop picturing the Observatory, the blue, the cold, the statuesque figure of a mighty Heimdall frozen in the corner, so it makes the whole thing rather difficult.

"Hel. Midgard looks worse than the last time we came here."

Leave it to him to feel no sense of urgency at all.

"It's so _hot_. I don't remember it being this hot."

"By Odin's beard." She hisses, turning and grasping his forearm, pulling him forward firmly. Frustration lines her voice. "We must move!"

"Loki could be anywhere on this godsforsaken planet, you realize this?"

"Yes!" She snaps, blinking rapidly. "But _your optimism is not helping matters_!"

She knows they have no time because, as she was sucked into the void she heard it, saw it—

Two frost giants following them. "Kill them, and bring King Laufey the casket!" echoing in the air.

Fandral grips the hilt of his sword, fingers padding against it forcefully. He looks at the sky. "We have company."

The blue turns gray at the edges; a great cloud of dark cosmic energy is coalescing above them. "Damn."

They are really, truly out of time.

She scans the wasteland quickly, looking for signs of a Midgardian civilization—they were always primitive, but no doubt one was nearby—

"Sif!"

She hadn't noticed him wander off. She looks sharply at the sound of the voice, thunder cracking overhead, and she knows that the Jotuns will be here any minute. "What?"

"Look." He's several feet away, tracing a black, burned area with the sole of his boot. She hurries over, watching as the desert fades from sand to charcoal to intricate, interlocking patterns.

"The mark of—"

"A son of Odin, yes—"

"Which means he's nearby!" She's never been so happy at the though of having Loki near. "Do you see a city? A palace, maybe? Some sort of vanguard?" There is hope, yet, hope for Asgard, hope for Thor—

"Is that one? Over there?" On the horizon there is a line, wavering in the heat, of what could be buildings but could also very plausibly simply be a mirage—

Thunder, and a wind from behind them; an earth shaking explosion that sends her to her knees; and a cloud of dust and dirt and grime and whatever else the soil on this damnable planet consists of.

The Frost Giants were on Midgard.

"Run!"

She is sick to death of running.

Soon, she will turn and fight.

* * *

><p><em>"Are you ready, brother?"<em>

_ What a stupid question. Of course he's ready. He's been ready since the day the brat was born. Loki raises a single eyebrow, looking in the boy's direction. Baldr stands at the other end of the room, beneath the light from two torches, hair shining, eyes gleaming, adopting a cheshire grin. Loki says nothing, turning instead to the table next to him. He's never been one for weapons; there is a spear, some arrows. He knows those will not harm Baldr—only what he covers the tips in will. _

_ "Please, Loki, stop this madness." Thor is the only other one in the room, standing close to him, fingering the dull wooden shaft of the spear. Loki thinks, faintly, that for once his brother is speaking the truth and that _he_ is the one taken by rage, but ignores this thought, ignores everything, and says:_

_ "It's only a bit of fun, really."_

_ Thor shakes his head, turns, and takes long strides towards Baldr's position, intent on talking the other out of this insane plan now that the older wouldn't budge. Loki licks his lips, wondering what to try first. There is something coiled in the pit of his stomach. Anticipation, nerves, excitement—he can't tell. _

_ "You two are both idiots!" Thor rages after a moment, smashing a fist into the golden wall. Loki frowns up at him. _

_ "Try to be __quiet, Thor." He drawls, deciding on the spear and dipping the edge into a small bowl of poison that he crafted himself. "You don't want to wake Mother and Father."_

_ "Actually, I do."_

_ "Move out of the way." Loki snaps, stepping back, readying his throwing arm. The weapon is odd and heavy in his unpracticed hands._

_ "For once I agree with Loki." Baldr smiles a winning smile, the smile of a boy who knows nothing can hurt him, and Loki hates it. "It's only a bet, Thor. And I am to win."_

_ "We'll see." Loki's brow draws downward and Thor steps to the side._

_He throws. _

* * *

><p>"Sir, we just got high readings from a spot in the desert."<p>

"Really?" He's only vaguely interested, mostly because he just received an email from Fury practically condemning Tony Stark to whatever proverbial hell the director could think of. _Damn kid_ this and _can't believe _that and really, Coulson knows he's an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D, that Fury's his boss, but what is he supposed to do about everyone's favorite problem when he was trying to figure out why a _hammer _had landed in the middle of Puente Antiguo, New Mexico, a.k.a nowhere?

"Several miles south of here."

"Near the other crater?" The empty one. The one he is sure Jane Foster got to first.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, then, we'd better check it out."

* * *

><p><em>The spear had been useless. He pulls an arrow from the table and dips it in the next concoction he prepared, but when he pulls back and lets it fly towards his brother's leg (he might accidentally be aiming for his heart) it bounces harmlessly away, as if repelled by some greater invisible force. <em>

* * *

><p>"That's not—ok, ok, wait!" She reaches across his lithe form and pulls the egg from his hand before he can bring it smashing down rather roughly on the side of the plastic bowl. She feels his disapproving gaze on the back of her neck and frowns up at him. His eyes are very, very green. "You were going to make a mess."<p>

"You told me to crack the shell."

"I meant gently break, not smash over the counter."

"Can you two hurry up? Please?" Darcy drags out the please into several more syllables than is needed. Jane looks back, toward where the intern is sprawled over the small kitchen table in the lab, and holds out the egg expectantly. "You want to cook?" The sunlight is filtering through the open window and Jane blinks, her eyes still sticky from staying up late and hardly sleeping. Darcy shrinks from the proffered item.

"No." She pushes her glasses up her nose and crosses her arms under her chin, looking like a wounded puppy. "But even going to Isabella's would've been faster than this."

"Well, blame Loki. He's a horrible cook."

"We have servants who cook for us. I hardly thought it would be a necessary skill to learn."

"We can't all be rich aliens, ok man?" Darcy groans, burying her head in her arms. Jane shakes her head, smiling a little smile, and turns back to cracking the egg on the side of the bowl, tossing the shell into the trash as she finishes. She is suddenly, acutely aware of how Loki's arm is pressed against her own. She feels a blush rising to her cheeks, unbidden and _stupid_ because, well, he's Asgardian and she's not, and _besides_ that is the last thing she needs right now, so she moves quickly to grab a fork, shoving it roughly into his hands. "Stir." She orders, stepping sideways, pushing the bowl towards him. He examines the fork like it's a foreign object. After a moment, when he still hasn't moved, she glances at him expectantly. Then:

"Hurry up."

"Patience."

She rolls her eyes, turning on the stove and getting the frying pan ready. Behind her she hears the door open, scraping over the concrete, and Erik walks in, looking incredibly tired and sleep-deprived. "Hi, Erik." Darcy sing-songs, with a vague gesture in their direction. "If you wait an hour we might have breakfast."

The older man grunts. Jane notices the bags under his eyes and makes a mental note to call the bar and tell them to stop letting in Dr. Selvig, please, he drinks too much. She reaches up toward the cabinet above her.

"Here." She tosses him a bottle of Alka-Seltzer but he misses, watching it hit the floor and bounce oncetwice rather forlornly. It rolls across a near non-existent grade towards the door, and she purses her lips because there is _no_ movement whatsoever to get it. "Sit down, Erik. Get that." She nudges Loki's side with her elbow, and the man hisses thickly. She winces. "Oops. Sorry. Forgot that you had that bruise—"

"You enjoy this." He snaps, setting down the bowl, face blank, eyes blazing. "Ordering me around."

"You make it too easy." she shrugs, picking up where he left off and smashing the fork roughly against the plastic. "Besides, I need to fix your mess before Darcy has a heart attack."

"More like, dies from starvation." The other girl moans unhelpfully.

The presence at her side disappears and she tries to ignore the fact that she even just picked up on that. _God, Jane, what are you, sixteen?_ Just as she starts to pour the thin, yellow liquid into the hot pan, avoiding the yolk-splatter as it sizzles, Darcy says, "Hey, man, what are you looking at? Not that I mind you staring out the window, it's a good view—"

"Darcy!" Jane looks back sharply, berating, exasperated, but then she sees Loki.

His form, tense. In one hand he's holding the small pill bottle. The other is stretched out toward the front of the lab, two fingers pressed against the glass.

"What's going on?" Jane tips the bowl back, liquid sloshing, trying to peer past his pointed shoulder because what the hell, it was Puente Antiguo at ten in the morning—the biggest thing that she can think of that would be happening involves a break out at the local pet store.

But then she sees it, in the distance—

The bowl slips from her hands, liquid splattering across the counter.

Dark clouds, forming past the town. And she knows in her gut that something is wrong, because that has all the signs of an anomaly, and another one wasn't due, she hadn't predicted it, which means it _couldn't be happening_, especially not in the middle of the day—

There is a sharp crack and the tablets from the bottle Loki is holding spill across the floor, sharp, broken pieces of plastic following after, and then, colored with something she's never heard from him, maybe fear, apprehension—

"Something's wrong."

* * *

><p><em>He tries another arrow, but he's running out of substances to dip the tip in. Baldr's stance has become increasingly haughty, Thor's increasingly lax, but he will let neither affect him, because he <em>will_ find a weakness in this pledge—_

_Everything has a weakness._

* * *

><p>"This is stupid."<p>

"What?"

"What do you think?"

"Well, yeah, this job sucks."

"Sucks? _Sucks_? My suit is sticking to me in all the wrong places, and this town's about as lively as a cemetery."

"Maybe Foster will move."

"They are—" Pause. "Still making breakfast. As of now."

"Spying on them through the window _and_ a pair of binoculars seems overkill."

"Talk to Coulson then. He seems to think that something is up here."

"Like what, aliens? Please. We all know Roswell was a joke and aliens don't exist."

"Ok, Garrett, you are the _only_ S.H.I.E.L.D agent who would say that. Seriously. Were you not around for the Kree and Skrull emissaries?"

"No."

"Well, do your research."

"Psh." Silence. "This burger is good."

"I'm happy for you."

"Mhmm—" He breaks into a coughing fit, and Agent Jackson looks sharply over at him.

"You ok?"

No. No he's not. He wipes the back of his mouth with his hand and places the burger on the lip of the roof; then he points. "Is there a Renaissance Fair in town?"

Jackson follows the line of his finger. "Call it in."

He reaches for the walkie-talkie on his belt and hits the talk button. Static fizzles over the air and he licks his lips, because how is he supposed to describe this?

"Yeah. Uh, base, this is Agent Garrett, and we've got, uh, Xena and Robin Hood."

* * *

><p><em>He's almost out of options. <em>

_There's a small mistletoe plant he picked from the garden—it's the only thing he hasn't tried, because mistletoe had seemed like the least likely solution. He still doubts it, but he also knows that Baldr can taste victory, so he picks a small leaf and smears the sap over the tip of his last arrow. _

* * *

><p>"You don't happen to have a scrying stone on you, do you?" Fandral furtively looks side to side, out of breath, and Sif shakes her head slowly, trying to calm her own breathing and ignore the scores of mortals staring at them. Fandral snorts as one almost walks into a large, metal monster because they are not watching where to place their feet. Sif shakes her head again, taking a quick glance the way they came, down a long street and open sand, but the desert is calm, now, and she can only see the mountains in the horizon.<p>

"Something held them up, or they would have followed us more closely." She bites her lip, pausing beneath the shade of an overhang. Her hair is sticking to her neck and her armor slides uncomfortably because of a thin layer of sweat that is steadily increasing in the growing heat. Her heart is finally calming, but the Midgardian atmosphere is doing her no favors.

"I should have brought a scrying stone." Fandral laments. He looks behind him, then does a double take and turns around fully. She continues to survey the street, only half paying attention.

"Perhaps we can ask one of these people."

"Mhmm."

"They will_ have_ to have noticed the arrival of an Asgardian—one of them at least."

"No one noticed _our_ arrival." He points out rather absently, and she turns, wondering at the tone, to find him peering at his reflection in the glass-front display of one of the mortal buildings. She slaps him on the arm and he frowns back at her, but all she can think about is Thor, back on Asgard, bloody and hopefully alive but knowing Laufey—and nobody did—who knew, really? To calm her senses and regain some composure she tries to puzzle out the strange, Midgardian script that is to be painted on the window, above and to the right of the reflection of Fandral's cocky face.

"Is-a-bell-a's Di-ner." She sounds out, but learning the mortal's language did not help her nerves. She taps her foot on the ground, and the metal of her armor shifts and clanks, attracting more stares. Then she hears it—

"Loki, wait!"

She's sprinting towards the noise before she can even really process which direction it's coming from, tumbling out to the middle of the street and into the path of one of the metal monsters—the thing screeches angrily and she jumps to avoid impact but does not slow, and all she can hear is the echo of Loki's name and Fandral behind her shouting:

"Sif!"

She runs up a slight incline and finds herself at the highest part of town. There is a circular building there, with more glass windows and a metallic structure out front. To the far left one of the metal beast's doors are flung wide, and there, in front of it, arms flat at his side—

She slows, because if she had not known him so long she wouldn't have recognized him.

"You want me to get the artifact?" A voice from inside the belly of the beast.

"Yes."

His hair is slightly mussed, and there are dark circles underneath his eyes. His clothing is mortal, and his bearing speaks of injury. In fact, if she didn't know better, she would say that he _was_ mortal—

But that was impossible.

Wasn't it?

"Loki." She doesn't want to get closer to him, for many reasons. Her voice dies in her throat and she starts again, stronger. "Loki."

He looks up, sharply, and it takes a moment for his eyes to focus on her figure.

She must look just as bad as he does.

He recognizes her instantly, eyebrows shooting downward, and his frown is deliberate. She watches as his fists tighten at his side.

"This thing. I almost forgot about it." The voice again, female, from the monster. After a pause a short, mortal girl jumps from the back, holding something rather gingerly in her hands, obscured by her elbow. The Midgardian barely reaches the middle of Loki's arm; Sif watches as she pushes her mousy brown hair from her eyes, and can't help but think that she looks incredibly _plain_, but the way Loki's eyes move directly towards her, the way he is staring—

No.

Impossible.

"What's wrong?" The mortal turns, following his gaze, and when she sees Sif her eyes widen considerably. "Oh."

"What are you doing here?" Loki says at last, looking at the mortal but addressing her.

"Well, hello to you too." Fandral walks up from behind, and Sif imagines he is trying to be intimidating; his tone is sour. "Nice to see your little lesson hasn't taught you much."

"Obviously you did not come here to argue." Loki finally meets her eyes, disdainfully. "What is the matter? Did my father come to lift my punishment?"

"Your father is in the Odinsleep." Sif grits out through clenched teeth, trying to ignore the urge she has to _punch his face in_. "And Asgard has fallen."

He doesn't say anything but his body becomes more tense, if that's even possible. Fandral points out rather blandly from beside her, no hope, no inflection, "Well, not fallen, not yet—"

"You're from Asgard too?" The mortal breathes out, interrupting, and for a moment Sif thinks the Midgardian is going to drop whatever is in her hands because the look on her face is awe and wonder and excitement and ambition all rolled into one. Sif can finally see the 'artifact,' now that the girl has turned, and it has ornate handles and a porcelain finish and—

"A Midgardian should hardly be holding the _Casket of Ancient Winters_." She hisses, stepping forward, only stopped because Fandral lays a hand on her upper arm. "Let's not let past grudges get in our way, shall we?" he whispers in her ear, and she counts to ten to calm herself.

_One. Two. Three. Four. I want to kill him_.

Nobody moves. The silence is heavy, uncomfortable, broken only by the gravel rolling to a stop after being disturbed suddenly by her advance.

"Hey, what's going on? Do you want me to call the police? Is it a bad drug deal or something?" A new voice, and Sif almost welcomes it, would welcome if it were someone who could help them. Instead it is another mortal girl, this one taller, with longer, darker hair, coming toward them from the right, entering the no man's land between herself and Loki. Fandral, spying an opportunity, immediately steps forward with a debonair grin and takes the mortal's hand, laying a light kiss over the knuckles with a, "Well, hello."

Sif can't tell if he's just trying to ease the tension or if he actually meant it.

Either way.

"Woh." The girl starts back, blushing. "Hi. Ok. Um. Who are you?" She looks rapidly between Fandral, Sif, and Loki. "Is that one your girlfriend?" She asks, pointing at her, and Sif frowns.

"Hardly."

"You seem to be here on some sort of emergency." Loki's voice is cool and low, and he swings the topic back to things at hand. He steps around the first mortal, in front of her, and his stance would be called protective if anyone but Loki had taken it. "I suggest you inform me of its nature, before time takes the opportunity from you."

Sif swallows, straightens, grips her staff tighter in one hand. When she speaks her voice cracks. "The Jotuns found a way into Asgard. A secret way. Not of the Bifrost." She wonders if he can hear the suspicion in her voice, see it in her eyes. "And Thor, angered, decided to finish Jotunheim once and for all, but as Heimdall opened the gate they stormed the Observatory. They are moving to attack the palace as we speak—"

"I cannot help you. Why did you leave?" His voice is cold with anger. "Why are _you_ not _helping_?"

"Why can't _you_?" She counters, feeling frantic. "The Jotuns look for the Casket." She looks pointedly at him, trying to spy the Midgardian behind. "Thor sent Fandral and I to warn you that the Frost Giants come, for it can _not_ fall into their hands."

"You came to warn me just of this? I can imagine I could have puzzled that out on my own."

"Two Jotuns came down the Bifrost directly behind us. I suspect they are on their way here as we speak."

"Jotuns?" The second mortal is still rubbing her knuckles, smiling dreamily. "What is that? More of your friends?"

"Loki." And she meets his eyes. They are very, very green and hard, like ice. "You must come back with us. Thor—" she chokes on the name. "Thor was taken, by Laufey, and your father, he is in danger—they need you."

Something strange and unsure passes across his face but it is fleeting. He shakes his head. "I am powerless." He looks at one pale, graceful hand. "I would be of no help on Asgard."

Something in her dies, shrivels, withers—

Hope?

He looks back at the mortal girl behind him. "But I will not let the Jotuns touch the Casket."

"How are we to stop them?" Sif's voice is bitter. Fandral is silent, still standing close to the second Midgardian. The two mortals are watching all in fascination. "Without your sorcery—"

"I will think of a way." He looks straight at her, chin tipping up, defiant. "Lest you forget, not all battles are won with strength of arms. Now, you say the Jotuns advance. If it is not beneath either of you, you will help me evacuate the town."

* * *

><p><em>He settles the feather of the arrow against his thumb. <em>

* * *

><p>When they pull up the dust is still settling. He throws the car into park, skidding a little on the dirt, and squints through the windshield. Sighing, he takes a placid sip of his coffee, wincing as it scalds his tongue. On either side, through dark tinted windows, he sees cars pulling to a stop.<p>

"Well. Looks promising." Agent Cale unbuckles his seatbelt but doesn't move. He yawns, and Coulson is of the same mindset that there are _a lot of better things he could be doing with his time_.

He reaches behind him, groping in the back seat for the megaphone. He finds it and opens the driver's side door with a sigh. "Let's get this over with."

The New Mexico air hits him, hard; he adjusts his glasses, breathing in lungfuls of dirt and grime. Of all the places he's had to go, New Mexico had been his least favorite.

By far.

Malibu would have been nice—

If it wasn't for Stark.

Through the heavy dust he finally starts to see a dark outline. The figure is roughly humanoid, thank _God_, but also rather large.

"What the hell…?" Cale's out on the other side of the car, but Coulson only notices the giant, blue _thing_ coming forward with steps that shake the earth.

"Is that one of Stark's?" Agent Cale asks, unsure.

"I don't know. Guy never tells me anything." Coulson licks his lips, puts the megaphone to his mouth. "Excuse me, but I'm going to have to ask you to come forward with your hands up—"

The breeze finally takes away the last of the sand and he almost starts back at the pair of eyes, red, demon-like, looking straight at him, and only then does he notice that there aren't one, but _two_ of the things, giant and blue with scars and—

_What in the hell—  
><em>

"We're going to have to ask you to put down your weapon." He says after a moment in which he tries to regain some semblance of composure. It's standard protocol to say it, but he doesn't see anything on the monster, no gun, no sword.

Maybe it's a mutant? Two with the same mutation, brothers, chances of that would be about one in a billion.

He takes a step away from the black sedan so he can unhook the gun from his waist holster, mostly because he wants to feel safer, but as he pulls it upward—

"Coulson! Duck!"

Training kicks in, and he rolls to the floor automatically as a neighboring sedan sails up and over his head in a high arc, whipping his suit jacket forward. It crashes to the desert ground several feet away with a small explosion and he pulls himself up enough to look through his open door at Cale's face, hunkered by shotgun, mouth hanging open. He adjusts his glasses, then:

"Did they just throw that car?" He asks.

"It would appear so." Cale nods, closing is mouth with a snap.

He looks back at the vehicle, and there is a sharp shard of what looks to be ice protruding from its center. He inhales quickly.

The man, from last night.

"Where is the Casket?"

It takes him a moment to realize that one of the monsters is talking, because the voice is a million insects crawling over his skin and he shudders and wheels away from it. He pulls the safety on his gun.

"Call for back-up."

* * *

><p><em>The bow creaks. <em>

_Baldr smiles. Thor shifts. _

* * *

><p>"Take the residents of the town and get them as far away as possible."<p>

"With what? The mortals cannot run like we can."

"Of course not. Prepare the cars."

"Excuse me?"

"The metal monsters, Sif, they are transportation. Gods, I did not take you to be such an idiot."

"Shut your mouth, brother killer, or I'm going to change my mind about helping you."

"That is hardly a heroic thought. You seem to be turning into me."

"We do not have time to waste on these mortals—Thor could be _dead_!"

Jane holds the artifact loosely in her grasp, watching as Loki's hand clenches tightly at his side. He turns slowly to face the new comer—Sif—and there is a sour look on his face. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but then abruptly turns towards her. "Move." He snaps, and before she really knows what is happening his hands are tight over her upper arms and he is pushing her back toward the Pinzgauer.

"You'll have to leave the Casket with me." He's saying as they walk, and it takes her a moment to process—

"Excuse me?" Her legs, pliant before, lock up, and she leans backward, boots skidding on the gravel. She looks over her shoulder angrily. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Honestly, Jane, now is not the time to finally develop any more mortal stupidity."

She shakes off his slender grip and steps back. Behind him Sif is surveying the town, eyes focused on the desert in the distance. All Jane can think about is how much she would like to examine that armor the other girl has on, because it has to have some special qualities to be able to survive inter space travel.

"I'd be an idiot if I let this opportunity pass me by!" She needs to try and collect some sort of hard evidence, because this, this was going to change _everything_.

"What, do you—do you _want _to stay and get killed?"

There is strain in his voice, as if some sort of emotion beside his usual calm was striving to break through, and her attention moves from Darcy—who, despite the apparent danger, was flirting shamelessly with that blonde—to Loki. She adjusts her grip on the artifact.

His eyes are tight, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

"What's going on?" She says quietly. "Really?"

"Always the questions." He almost—but not quite—smiles.

"Loki. Who's coming?"

"The Jotuns. Frost giants." He spits out he word. His fingers roll nervously along his thigh, and she is suddenly, immensely, incredibly scared. "They are looking for that." He almost touches the artifact but backs off last minute.

"And you're sure?"

He raises a single eyebrow at her.

"Ok. Well, I'm still not leaving." And, if she's being honest with herself, gaining credibility has nothing to do with it at this point.

"This argument isn't over." He frowns down at her. "But right now we need to evacuate—"

There is a sound, then, like the universe is tearing in two, followed by a small cloud of fire licking the sky—she can see it, down the street and over the buildings, and it might be her imagination but she can feel it, too, the heat—

"Son of a bitch!" She gasps, knees feeling weak. "What was—that—that was the gas line. By Isabella's—"

"Damn it all." He turns, raising his voice. "Sif!"

"No!" The girl turns, and Jane thinks she looks tired, blood on her face, hair plastered with sweat, looks utterly and completely—

Human.

"No!" The girl repeats. "I am _fighting_ the Jotuns and _dragging_ you back to Asgard even if it kills me, because I will _not_ let Thor die!"

"You are letting your emotions get in the way—"

"I am not like you, Loki! I cannot kill the people I love!"

Jane is about to ask what _that_ is supposed to mean but Loki has already moved, so fast, so fast he is practically a blur, until he is towering over his fellow Asgardian, an ugly, cynical look on his face. "Don't you dare accuse me—"

"Of the truth?"

"WHERE IS THE CASKET?"

Jane shudders, wants to sink in on herself, because the voice is so goddamn _loud_. She tries to find its speaker and there, down the street, coming through the smoke and fire—

_Oh my God._

The blonde man starts back from his position by Darcy and looks towards Sif. "Are you going to—"

"I will defeat them." She snaps, stalking forward. Jane already hears the screaming, but everything seems dull and far away, muted.

Impossible.

Blue _giants_—

"Come, Fandral. Let them taste Asgardian steel."

"You sound too much like Thor—there are innocents, Sif—" But the girl is already running, her steps slightly hindered by her armor, and the blonde curses, "Damn it." and pulls a rapier from the sheath at his side.

"Jane, get in the car." Loki doesn't look at her.

"We have to help get people out." She doesn't really understand what's happening, doesn't understand how the square, empty, gray box she is holding could cause so much trouble, but the screams are coming back and she couldn't care less—she tucks the artifact under one arm and shouts, "Darcy! Come on!"

"What the hell is going _on_?" The intern wails. "That guy was paying attention to me, and he was _hot_, and now he's _gone_—"

"So not the time." Jane snaps. "Get Erik."

* * *

><p><em> Ready.<em>

* * *

><p>She's tired. So tired. Her mind feels clouded, ugly, and she can't think straight. The first Jotun is up ahead, close now, and, rather automatically, she extends her staff and springs up in an arc.<p>

Was she being too rash, like Thor?

Was she doing exactly what she told him _not_ to?

Her eyes meet red.

Something connects with her side, which she left open, unguarded—

The ground is hard and the blackness sweet bliss.

* * *

><p><em>Aim.<em>

* * *

><p>Fandral thinks he shouts as Sif is thrown sideways, tossed like a child's plaything, but it's lost amid the screams and yells of the mortals around him, who are streaming away in droves, a mass exodus.<p>

"This way!"

"Over here!"

This is a foolish plan; it isn't even a plan, and he is all for living life on the edge, but not like this—

They are tired, worn; Loki is without powers and the Jotuns all but have the Casket in their grasp.

He smiles, dashingly, because that's what he does, and charges forward.

He's out cold before he hits the ground.

* * *

><p><em>Fire.<em>

* * *

><p>The street is empty. All she can hear are the dying roar of engines as people flee into the desert. She grips the artifact between her hands and looks for the two other Asgardians; there is no sign of them, but she did see Sif get tossed like a rag doll, so <em>how were they expected to defeat that<em>?

"You have to get out." Loki is looking down the street. She swallows thickly as the two monsters move up toward them, slowly, ice blossoming out in a flower around their feet with each step. "There is still time."

"What about Sif? Is she—"

"Dead?" It sounds like he cuts off an _I wish_. Instead: "For our sake, I hope not."

"Oh."

"Jane, we have to listen to him." The screaming sobered Erik up like nothing else could have. He's pointing towards the Pinzgauer, and Darcy is inching sideways.

"I'm not leaving you." She says, but Loki is still facing the street and doesn't turn, so she the declaration falls rather flatly to his back.

She knows, then, with absolute certainty, that she _can't_, she can't leave him—

"Jane, now is_ not_ the time to get all noble, let's _go_." Darcy jumps in place, looking at the Pinzgauer like it was a red Ferrari or a Porsche or maybe just salvation.

"Give me the Casket." Loki's voice is cold.

"Loki—" But before she knows what is happening the thing is taken from her grasp, not forcefully but firmly, and he starts to walk forward, to meet the monsters. Over his shoulder, slightly:

"Jane. Trust me."

* * *

><p><em>It hits.<em>

_Baldr falls._

* * *

><p>The laugh is gravel on ice, nails on marble, a million insects crawling over his skin; he keeps his face blank, fighting back a grimace. From the corner of his eye he sees Jane cover her ears with her hands, a look of disgust coming over her face. He takes a step forward, barely, as the monsters peer down at him, towering over the deserted Puente Antiguo buildings. The Casket is heavy, dead weight in his hands but no light is flickering; he can't seem to call up the sensation in his gut, has forgotten what magic is; instead he feels the little flame pulsate nervously to the beat of his heart. He levels it in front of his chest.<p>

"This was easier than expected." The first monster snickers, arm an icy, frozen spear.

"Of course. The others led us right to it." The second takes a long look around him. "I can't believe you were in this _pit_ Loki Odinson."

"You are a foolish, foolish boy." The first has a look of disdain on his face that it pains Loki to see, because he has worn the same look one too many times on his own. "You think that you can stop us with the Casket? The power that we control? The winter that we unleash?"

The presence at his side is sudden and he practically screams, because Jane is there, arms crossed, looking up at the two giants. He grits his teeth, mind reeling from the information Sif delivered to him, body aching from his injuries, and takes a step forward, red eyes tracking his movements, until he stands between the Frost Giants and Jane Foster. He wonders faintly if his brother ever feels this nervous standing on the battlefield, wonders what his brother would do if he were powerless and the only weapon in his possession would simply help the opposition, wonders if his brother is even alive. The first monster laughs again.

"Son of Odin, you were not made out to be this foolish." It reaches out a thick, meaty hand. "I grow tired of your games." The beast takes a step forward, the other staying stock still slightly behind, as if to block all escape, and Loki presses back, feeling Jane's nose cut somewhere into his lower back. He whispers over his shoulder, fighting for control, "Damn, Jane, move!"

"No!" she hisses back, "I'm not going to just—"

Pain, sharp, unexpected, blossoming into reality. The beast has the Casket in a death grip and flings him roughly to the side so he skips and rolls over the pavement like a stone. He comes to a stop against the wheel of a car, world a vortex of images and sights and sounds he cannot quite piece together correctly—

"Loki!"

"Jane, get back—"

"Too easy."

"Shouldn't he be like, _melting_?"

He coughs and tastes metal. Something lodges in the back of his throat. He pushes himself to his hands and looks up through the haze—

The Jotun has the edge of the Casket gripped triumphantly in one hand. Jane is standing before him, for all the world a mouse, looking frantically between the monsters before her and himself, lying on the ground. Erik is slowly, hands outstretched, waiting for the first move, inching towards the frozen girl, and Darcy has taken refuge behind a battered mailbox.

Think. Think, damn it, think—

He could strike a deal. Strike a deal for Midgard.

At the cost of what, Asgard?

But he would be saving—

"Little mortal, I suggest you stand down, before I make you."

"Jane, get back from there!" Erik shouts himself hoarse. Loki tries once more to push himself to his feet but, unlike his previous injuries, he fears he has actually broken a rib or six. But then he catches the movement—

The monster reaches forward with its free hand, and things tumble into slow motion.

He is on his feet. Each breath rips a new hole in his throat. Blood, hot and heavy, chokes him as he staggers towards the mortal, the stupid, damn, idiotic mortal who can't move and who is watching her death come towards her with all the brains of a pig about to be slaughtered—

He connects.

She falls sideways heavily, scraping the asphalt with a gasp, and the hand, meant for her, crashes down around his upper arm with a sickening crack. The world is black for a moment until the pain cuts through and he swims back to reality; the fingers of his left hand are numb, the bones tendons muscles useless in the hand of the Jotun.

"You've gone soft, Loki Odinson." The beast pulls him up; it's as if the Casket is lending its magic, its strength, because he finds himself dangled high in the air, staring directly into the eyes of the Giant across from him, and it's all he can do to keep from screaming in pain. "That woman has made you soft. No matter. I'll take the Casket back to Asgard with your complements, and all shall know of your treachery."

He feels teeth through his tongue from biting it too hard, but something deep like thunder sounds in the back of his mind—

_"Die smiling, brother. Die with honor. Always."_

—and he grins rather manically, blood seeping down his chin. "Go to Hel. You son of a bitch."

The words are foreign and Midgardian in his mouth and the Giant does not understand the second part of it, only its connotation, the hatred that leaks from it, and responds icily, "I believe you are the only one who will be visiting Helheim today, son of Odin."

The beast swings.

For a brief instant he feels his head snap back and connect with the concrete.

Then, nothing.


	15. Chapter 15

**a/n:** i hope you guys all had fantastic holidays! updates after this chapter will probably be sporadic; i'll try my hardest to get them out prudently, but school's starting again soon. :(

thank you for all the lovely reviews! each one makes my day. high five.

anyway, please read and review :)

* * *

><p>His head hits the pavement with a sound like a balloon popping and then the giant drops his limp body in a bloody, twisted heap; she finds herself fighting back the bile rising fast to her mouth. She is on her feet in less than a second but something—someone—has her elbow in a vice-like grip.<p>

"Let. Me. Go. Erik!" She shouts, breathless, yanking up and out, but the older man will have none of it. The first creature turns its eyes down to her; they are eerily red and blank, emotion well-controlled and veiled behind years and years of suffering—

Loki's eyes.

"Let me go!" she's finding it hard to breath and her words are coming out in a high whisper.

"Foolish mortal." The monster grins, revealing two rows of serrated teeth, and then it turns, without a backwards glance or a final word, begins its slow, lumbering march back into the desert where it came from, the second one following behind, the black Casket flickering dimly in its hand. She shakes off Erik and sprints forward, too fast for her feet to carry her, so she stumbles slightly in the middle of the empty street before careening to a stop by the man lying prone on the asphalt.

His head is twisted at an odd angle, face passive and blank, eyes closed. Blood still leaks slowly from the corners of his mouth, and his left arm appears shrunken, bruised and broken from the beast's grip. She fights back a sob, her knees hitting the street. Tentatively she pushes a hand towards his face. The pads of her fingers brush lightly over the high cheekbones, the sharp, eagle-like nose, smearing the blood on his chin. She cradles the side of it after a moment's pause, angrily pushing her hair away from her face. "Asshole. You can't leave me. Not like this. Anyway but like this."

When did the tears start?

The sound of the giants' footsteps are echoing across the empty street. She hears Darcy faintly—"I'm going to call 911."—but the only true thing at this moment is the man lying in front of her, broken and so—so—

Lifeless.

She reaches rather listlessly with her free hand for a pulse. "No. No, no, no, please no, please whoever is out there, it's not fair. It isn't fair." She doesn't necessarily believe in God, but she'll believe in anything right now if it would mean taking back what just happen, because this, this was her fault—

She hears Erik first. His short voice on the empty air. "Jane."

She doesn't turn. Instead she whispers, "I still have questions."

"Jane." More urgently.

Was there something wrong with her getting to say goodbye? Then:

"Jane!"

"What?" She tries to snap but the tears catch it and hold it and it sounds more defeated than anything. She feels hands then, strong on her upper arms, hauling her backwards, her boots clattering against the pavement, away from him, from lifeless, dead him—"Erik, what the _hell_ are you doing?"

Then she sees it.

An anomaly from the desert, almost too faint to make out. A thin, light line against the wasteland sky. She squints up at it; part of her, the small, still scientific part that isn't currently emotionally dead, calculates the trajectory and gauges the speed and, coming up behind them like a ghost, Darcy whispers softly, "What _is_ that?"

It arcs.

It sails.

It flies.

It hits.

There is a moment when she smells the burnt, cracked ozone as lightning descends from the sky in a fiery tornado, which whips up the debris around them into a whirlwind until there is nothing but dark clouds and smoke and she lunges forward to get to him once more but Erik's grip is firm and as suddenly as it starts—

It stops.

The tears on her face are drying cool as she looks up. Before her, in the middle of the street, is a tall, regal figure, wearing arm braces that glint gold in the light and a cape that flows green to the ground. In one hand there is a hammer and he is examining it thoughtfully, quietly, holding the weapon out before him. When he turns, slightly, his eyebrows are drawn together, confused, his mouth slightly ajar. Then he meets her eyes.

She watches as his face returns to blank. He makes an odd, twisting sort of motion with his hands and suddenly the hammer is gone in a flash of liquid green-white light.

The giants at the other end of the street had turned at the onslaught of noise. She would say the creatures looked perplexed but it was hard to tell with the dust still swirling in the air. Her knees feel weak and she is suddenly, immensely grateful for Erik's hands around her upper arms.

Loki stalks forward.

* * *

><p><em>I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to, I didn't meanI didn't, I didn'tmeantoIdidn'tmeantoIdidn'tmeanto—<em>

"_Loki!"_

_He stutters forward, bow clattering to the ground, and practically launches himself until he is kneeling next to Thor, who is fingering the arrow protruding from Baldr's chest, from—_

"_I didn't mean to." _

_From his heart._

"_Brother—"_

"_I didn't mean to."_

"_Loki—"_

"_I didn't mean to."_

"_Snap out of it!" Thor roars into his face, and Loki is startled by how his brother's eyes are shining in the half-light of the torches, his face pale behind his stubble, and all he can think about is how _good_ it felt to let that arrow fly—_

"_I must get Father." Thor stands. "Do what you can."_

_There is anger and Loki can sense it, simmering beneath the surface of Thor's normally genial voice, and then the slam of a door and he is gone. Loki feels blindly for a pulse._

_There is none._

_Baldr's eyes are wide and unblinking, his mouth parted slightly. _

_Loki sits back on his knees and drops his face into his hands. _

_He didn't mean to._

_But he isn't sorry. _

* * *

><p>He takes things slowly because now a myriad of senses and powers are assaulting him, and he wants to absorb it all. His vision is sharper, and he can easily make out the scars dotting the Jotuns' bodies across the way. His ears pick up the quick, rapid, staccato-like breathing of the mouse-mortal behind him. His hands feel the cool water magic of the world, wrapping around him like his only friend, an old friend, returned at last from a very long, very painful absence.<p>

He grins slowly, cape swirling and dancing around his feet as he comes to a stop near the Giant. "I did visit Helheim for a moment, brother." He forces as much hatred as he can into the one word, sends it out like a piercing dagger. "But it seems the soul they required was yours, not mine."

"That's impossible." The first Jotun levels the casket at him with narrowed eyes. "I killed you."

"Indeed, you did. But it seems my father was not as wholly incapable as he liked the world to believe he was."

"That's impossible!" The Giant repeats.

"Apparently not." He shrugs lightly, part of his now-heightened-senses taking in Thor's hammer where it sat patiently, waiting to be called, feeling as light as a feather and as powerful as Gugnir itself—more so, even.

Was this the kind of heady, raw influence that always coursed through his brother, with MjoInir in his hands?

He likes it. Likes the feeling. Relishes the power.

"I could kill you with MjoInir." He flexes his hands. "But I have been given the name of Trickster on this world, and I should probably keep to that." He gives no warning, throwing his hand forward and plucking one of the strings of magic. The Jotun is tossed backward by a blast of wind from an unseen storm, landing heavily on its back. The second makes to avenge his fallen brother but Loki snaps, and the creature is suddenly frozen in place. He walks slowly towards the prone figure of the first.

"I want you to know." There is a sort of finality in the creature's eyes as he forms the magic of the world into one single blade that sizzles and hisses in his hand. "I want you to know that your death came from the son of Odin."

He stabs forward, and the makeshift blade cuts a swatch clean through to the beast's heart; then, silence. The Casket rolls limply to the floor, porcelain on stone, and with another snap the second Jotun falls forward heavily, an arrow of green-white protruding from its chest. Loki bends to retrieve the Casket as the blue heart-light inside of it dies, magicking it away.

Then he calls forth MjoInir.

The hammer materializes in his grip. From it he feels the power to summon lightning, call forth storms, demolish enemies—demolish all of Jotunheim should he so choose. He could be ruler of the Nine Realms with this weapon; coupled with his magic, not a single being would be able to successfully stand against him, and he would have recognition, fame, glory, praise, _love_—

"Loki?"

The voice is soft, not quite timid but almost. The hammer vanishes and he turns on his heels to face it.

Jane Foster hits him in the stomach.

"Ow, God!" she hisses, pulling back her fist and shaking it roughly up and down. "What is that made of, diamond?"

"An ancient, dwarven-crafted alloy of gold metal. Niorite, I believe. Or something of the sort." He raises his eyebrows, looking down his nose at her, watching as she sucks on a knuckle and stares at him up and down. He can make out the different flecks of brown in her eyes with his heightened Asgardian vision. They are red.

"Don't you ever, _ever_ put me through something like that again." She glares up at him. "Ever." Then, as an afterthought, "Ass."

"I clearly was not dying, as I did not inform you that I was."

"Yeah, well, tell that to your nonexistent pulse." She crosses her arms, suddenly interested in her feet. Then she looks up, smiling almost mischievously. "So is this. You know. How you normally look?" She motions vaguely to his ceremonial garb, the heavy armor and green cape, black leather underneath, and he smirks.

"You don't like it?"

"No. It's a good look." She smiles then, her brown eyes glinting. "A really good look."

He takes a step forward, almost unconsciously, and really, the mortal was just so _small_, but then—

"Good heavens. Well. I'm glad you took care of that." He turns quickly around, annoyed. Fandral is climbing from a broken shop window, looking rather worse for wear and very pale. The blonde glances quickly at the two dead Jotuns.

"You are welcome." Loki finds his smirk fading, the strange feeling in his chest leaving. Instead there is only distaste. "Where is Sif?"

Fandral pushes his way forward onto the sidewalk, his armor clanking. Loki takes note of the injuries, broken greaves, the things that could not have happened from the Jotun attack. "How bad is Asgard?" He finds himself saying. The hammer weighs heavily in his mind.

"Not good, shall we put it that way?" Fandral grunts, bending down and pulling away at the debris from the nearest building.

Loki's mouth dries.

All his fault.

Always his fault.

"Sif is right. Your brother is in danger—ah. There's a love, come on." He hunkers down, dragging a limp arm around his shoulder. Loki watches but does not see as Fandral pulls Sif into a sitting position.

"Is she ok?" Jane steps forward. She's pressing against his shoulder, and for some reason he finds he does not mind. He shrugs.

"It does not matter. She would not have changed the tide of battle."

"Loki!"

He looks down at the mortal. "It's true."

"Thank you for your confidence." Sif's voice is thick with pain. Her eyes are world-weary and Hel-bent as they find him, and then the two dead Jotuns. "I'm surprised you decided to help." Her voice could cut through steel. She pushes off Fandral and shoulders up. "We must—"

"Go. Yes." He turns abruptly, done with his brother's friends. At that moment Darcy runs from the lab, waving her hand wildly above her. "I called the ambu—_holy_ _shit you're alive_!"

Erik shakes his head, rubbing his temples.

The sky above Loki seems a weight, heavy and tangible, invisible eyes watching their progress and calling for help, and an urgency that he did not feel before is coming upon him. He meets Erik's gaze. "I trust you can handle this?" He gestures behind him to the two twisted figures. The older man coughs roughly, eyebrows raised.

"I'm not sure—"

"Good." Loki cuts him off with a curt nod, opening the palm of his hand.

MjoInir materializes, reassuring and radiating pure, complete power. There is a noise of protest from Sif, and then, "_Why do you have Thor's hammer_?" In a voice that is low and bloodthirsty. Loki eyes her calmly.

"Do not get involved in things you do not understand."

"Loki, I swear by the gods—"

"I shall return to Asgard and fight—but for my brother, and for no one else. Especially not for you."

"I cannot—" Sif cuts off abruptly, as if muffled by an unseen force, and she reaches for her mouth and the voice that is not there.

By Helheim, but how he missed magic.

Jane's been surprisingly silent. He lets MjoInir fall against his side and says, "No questions?"

"Oh, tons of questions." She nods.

"They can wait."

"Oh, really?"

"Do you want to fly?"

"Fly."

"Yes."

"Have you…flown often?"

"I've watched my brother. It is not difficult in theory, why should it be in practice?"

"That logic sounds incredibly flawed, even for you."

He doesn't know what's come over him, and the only thing that makes sense is that it's his brother's hammer, making him act more Thor-like. He reaches out a single arm and wraps it firmly around Jane's waist, drawing her close. She smiles, shocked, and he grins rather darkly.

He aims the hammer at the sky, twirls—

"Hold on."

* * *

><p><em> His father sends him sailing into the far wall so hard it cracks, shoving a meaty forearm up and under his chin, and he is roaring, spittle flying from his mouth, "WHAT DID YOU DO?"<em>

_ Loki says nothing, because there is nothing to say, only an accident, a bet gone wrong, and now his mother is sobbing over Baldr, bent over his silent, still form, and didn't see him, didn't see Loki right there, pressed up against the wall, and all he wants to shout is that she still has a son, he's right here, right here—_

_ "Answer me, Loki!" Odin AllFather has hatred in his eyes and his voice and he presses further into his throat until Thor steps forward and says, frantically, "It was an accident, Father—"_

_ "Silence!" The AllFather roars, looking back at Thor but not seeing, not seeing anything. "Accident! You're brother is _dead_!"_

_ "But Baldr agreed to the bet, too—" Thor tries, but he chokes a little on the name and Loki struggles vainly to get a breath and the AllFather lets loose his hold and sends him tumbling to the ground. _

_ "Loki Odinson, your actions today are inexcusable. Guards!" The door opens. "Take this man to the Pit. Let him stay there. Let him die there."_

_ At this he opens his mouth. "Father, I did not mean—"_

_ "Take him!"_

_ They grab his arms, roughly, and pull him from the room._

_All he hears is his mother's sobbing, following him out.  
><em>

* * *

><p>Erik stands, rubbing his face.<p>

He can't even—

Just—

What.

"Erik." Darcy keeps shaking his shoulder. Her face is still a bright red from the kiss that blonde alien had planted on her cheek before running off into the desert with his dark-haired friend. "Erik. Erik, seriously, what are we supposed to tell the ambulance when they come?"

He stares blankly at the two very blue, very dead giants sprawled in the street, taking up the whole road, bleeding a sticky, dark, almost-black substance.

"Erik, we should go after Jane."

Jane, Jane who zoomed off into the sky with Loki and a _hammer_.

"Erik, we should do _something_."

And last night he had lied to S.H.I.E.L.D.

His life was over.

"Erik—"

"Darcy." He says through gritted teeth, praying for patience. "Darcy, please. Be quiet."

"But uh, those men are back."

He looks up sharply. Coming up the street are three black sedans, pristine and dark in the sunlight. They pull to a stop on the other side of the giant-barrier in the middle of the road. The doors open.

"Dr. Selvig. You've been busy." Coulson steps out into the sunlight. Erik starts, because his suit is torn and he has a cut on his cheek. The agent that gets out of the passenger side has a jacket singed at the edges.

"Agent Coulson." Erik doesn't move. Darcy's hand is still gripped loosely around his upper arm. "How are you?"

"I've been better." He takes off his sunglasses and shines them on his stiff jacket, staring at the two monsters. "Did you…?" He motions vaguely to the mess.

"No."

"I'm guessing it was Donald Blake?"

"You could say that." Erik frowns.

"We would have been here sooner, but we had some car trouble." Coulson smiles tightly.

"Well, you're here now." Erik is tired and doesn't care. "I'm guessing you can clean up, then. That's your job, isn't it?"

Coulson puts on his glasses but doesn't respond. Instead he turns to the agent beside him. "Where's our back-up? At the rate he's taking I should have called in Barton."

"Barton's in New York, sir. As of—" the man checks his watch. "—four hours ago."

"My point exactly."

There is a sudden noise, rending the sky like a small jet engine; then a sharp _crack_, metal bending—

And Erik is staring at Iron Man, perched atop one of the S.H.I.E.L.D cars, causing the roof to bend and bow.

"Am I late?" Tony Stark straightens, pretending to brush off his armor. "Sorry 'bout the car. Put it on my tab."

"Stark." Coulson pinches the bridge of his nose. "If you get a call saying we need back-up _now_ then that means_ now_."

Erik watches.

He needs a drink.

* * *

><p><em>There is only pain, searing, blinding.<em>

_There is nothing else. _

Drop_._

_Fire, burning rivulets down his back, eating the flesh._

Drop.

_Venom, cutting into his skin._

Drop_._

_The relief is the worst, the two seconds or so before the next drop hits, because he knows what is coming—_

Drop.

"_Brother."_

_He doesn't move. There are two chains binding his wrists, pulling him into a half-kneeling position on the ground. His head is bent low. _

"_Brother."_

_He's waiting for the drop and wishing the voice would be quiet so he could concentrate on trying to live through the next bought of pain. _

"_Loki."_

_It never comes. He looks up slightly, spies familiar boots, but can't lift his neck past that, so doesn't try. _

"_Go away."_

"_You're lucky you got the Pit. And not a death sentence." There is a hollow, knocking sound and he realizes faintly that Thor must be holding some sort of container over his head to catch the venom. _

"_You think this is luck?" He sneers, sharply, angrily. "You could not last three minutes in this Hel." His voice is raspy with disuse._

"_You're right. And you've managed to stay alive six months."_

_He thinks that there must not be any skin left on his back. They should turn him over, like meat on a spit, so he could be matching on both sides—_

"_Father sent me to get you."_

"_He's not my father."_

"_He still loves you."_

"_But he loved Baldr more. As such, he would not even listen to my tale."_

"_It looked bad, Loki. It still does."_

"_Do you hate me?"_

"_I'm disappointed in you." Pause. "I do not think I could ever hate you."_

"_You would be the first." The venom of the snake above him hits the container with a dull sound. Then:_

"_And only."_

* * *

><p>He sees everything.<p>

The way the Jotuns cavort inside the Observatory like it's a playground, twisting Gugnir to show them views of other worlds, portals to realms tinged black with death or with green mountains reaching high into the sky. The way the AllFather is concealed somewhat in his chambers, presence obscured and blurred by the monsters present in the room with him. The way Loki looks, mortal and frail, the way he disappears from sight, the way the death of the Jotuns brings him back to awareness sharp and crystalline clear so he is left staring, from an aerial view, at a blank New Mexico street, occupied by two broken, twisted forms and a score of mortals—

He has waited long enough, he thinks.

With a mighty crack the ice surrounding his ankles breaks; the Jotuns start at the sound, but by then the damage is done. The split travels up, up, all the way to his outstretched arms where they are still frozen, mid-swing, clutching his broadsword, and then his prison shatters with the sound of a million, tinkling bells.

"I believe you have had your fun." He intones in a deep, monotone voice, pounding into the first Jotun and running through the second, so that the floor becomes coated in a sticky, black substance, and he continues, relentlessly, until there is not a single monster left alive and not another is summoned. He rips Gugnir from its stand and readies the Bifrost, spreading his awareness over the Nine Realms until it comes to a stop on Midgard, where the Silver-Tongue is looking impatiently at the sky—

Heimdall opens the gate.

* * *

><p><em>Thor gets drunk loudly and often. <em>

_Loki gets drunk quietly and never. _

_Which is why the former finds the role reversal currently taking place so funny. He tilts his head to one side as he enters the tavern, hidden by the folds of a cloak. He's too bulky to pull off Loki's lithe, hidden grace; as he walks he leaves a trail of broken mugs in his wake. _

_At the wooden counter a figure draped in gold and green, hiding behind the cowl of his cape, reaches for another pint. _

"_I think you've had quite enough." Thor puts a large hand on his thin forearm. Loki snorts in a rather un-Loki like manner, green eyes flashing dangerously, and continues for the drink, until Thor—in one of his greater moments of lucidity—beats him to it and drains the mug in one long sip. The ale burns down his throat as he smashes the chipped thing onto the counter. "Ha!" He barks triumphantly, only slightly regretting his actions as Loki's glare deepens. _

"_It took me forever to find you." Thor feels the need to say, to relieve some of the thick, heavy tension between them. The sounds of the tavern drown him out so that he's forced to move slightly closer. "Why you came to this place I'll never know. There is a quaint little tavern closer to the palace that's much nicer."_

"_Be quiet, Thor." His words aren't even slurred; there is only a high, unusual flush to his pale cheeks. His eyes glitter dangerously. "Your voice is loud." Thor watches in amusement as his brother frowns at the word choice. _

"_I have been told I am an incredibly obnoxious drunk. I believe you are an incredibly un-eloquent drunk."_

"_I am not—I am not." He manages. _

"_Can you come home, now?" _

"_I have no home."_

"_Nonsense, Loki."_

"_Leave me in peace."_

"_Never, brother. I am afraid you are stuck with me."_

_Loki turns away, saying nothing.  
><em>

* * *

><p>When they land Jane is winded, breathless, and clutching Loki so hard that, upon hitting the ground—at last, thank <em>God<em>—they tumble sideways in a heap of twisted limbs.

"If you ever do that to me again I'll kill you." She gasps, rolling away and trying to catch her breath. "That's like riding in a jet. With the top down."

She thinks Loki looks a little sick to his stomach, a little paler than normal, and he eyes the hammer in his hand with distaste. "Teleportation is a much—smoother way to travel." He grimaces, a slight downturn of his mouth, and the hammer suddenly vanishes in a flash of liquid white-green. Jane blinks away the imprint on the backs of her eyes, shakily getting to her feet as he does the same, brushing off his golden armor.

"You could have teleported us here?" Her voice is pitched low, her arms crossed.

"I—" he seems to consider his answer. "No. No, I could not. Your mortal body would not have been able to handle it."

"You are such a liar."

"I prefer trickster."

She snorts, looking around, vaguely recognizing the landing site from—how long ago had it been? It seemed like weeks. Months, even. Not days. She spies the burnt, charcoal ground several yards away. "That was MjoInir, isn't it?" She points to his empty hands.

"I do not know why I have it, if that's what you mean." He says abruptly, avoiding her question and looking at the sky, which is a perfect, mid-day blue. She traces the outline of his eagle profile. "It is said only the worthy can wield it."

"Well, you're being rather obtuse."

"Excuse me, Jane Foster?"

"You're being an idiot." She begins to take a step towards him and then catches herself, shoving her hair behind one ear and looking to the side. "You've always been worthy. Everyone else was just too caught up in themselves to see it."

He doesn't look at her, still gazing at the sky. Then:

"If you had known me for thousands of years, you would not say that."

She shrugs her shoulders, not really knowing what else to say, wanting to open her mouth but unable to think of anything. At last he frowns back at the mirage-line of the town, wavering in the distance.

"Where are they?"

"Sif and the blonde?"

"Fandral."

"Well, you did make them walk." She's still staring at him but he's resolutely avoiding her gaze.

She can't think of anything to say except—

"Thank you."

He frowns, green, green eyes tracking sideways in a pseudo-glare that she can tell he doesn't mean. "I deserve no thanks."

"You saved my life." She takes another step forward, even though she doesn't really mean to.

"I'm only sorry you had the intelligence of a wild animal—why did you just _stop_, you foolish, idiot girl?" He snaps, finally turning towards her, mouth wearing a legitimate frown.

"I just watched those things toss you like you weighed ten pounds!"

"Which usually means you should run."

"I'm a scientist—I was trying to—

"To what, _think_ your way out of it?"

"I wanted to save you!"

"You are a Midgardian, incapable of saving others, only of being saved." He's very close. When did he get so close?

"I'm just saying thank you; accept it, move on!"

"I didn't do it to garner you praise, your _thanks_." He sneers. A pause. Then: "I did it because this world would have really been Hel without you."

The last part is mumbled, gritted out quickly, and despite the frown, the angry slash of his brows, he's got a faint tint to his cheeks. She steps forward again, arms outstretched, to—

To what, exactly?

_He's not human, Jane_, her rational side points out.

_I don't care_, says the side that reads Jane Austen.

But then—

"We must move, Silver-Tongue." Sif's voice is venom. She appears as if from the air, and Jane steps quickly back, feeling her own cheeks burn hot with a blush. The other woman is hardly out of breath from her sprint. She barely glances at them, instead heading straight to the area of burnt charcoal, and Jane watches as she shouts up at the sky. "Heimdall, open the Bifrost!"

There is a moment of silence.

Nothing.

"Heimdall!" Sif screams, her brown, brown hair tumbling around her face as she draws in another deep breath. Fandral comes to a stop next to her, leaning slightly on his knees. "Darling, in our haste to get here we seemed to have overlooked one minor detail."

"Heimdall is currently incapacitated, isn't he?" Loki deadpans, the serious look back on his face. "Wonderful, Sif. Your intelligence continues to astound. We have MjoInir, now, and the Casket, but no way of getting back to save Asgard. Truly brilliant plan, that."

"They were trying to _kill_ us." She snarls, and for a moment Jane thinks she is going to draw her weapon on the man in front of her, but Fandral steps into the charcoal ring and places a hand on her wrist.

"Enough, both of you."

"Heimdall!" Sif screams again.

"Useless." Loki hisses under his breath. "I can travel the gateways between realms, but not with two guests. And I'm hardly inconspicuous with the energy I'm currently radiating."

"From MjoInir and the Casket."

"You catch on fast, mortal."

"I try." Jane frowns at the sky.

"Heimdall!" Sif is screaming herself raw, and all Jane can think of is that whoever is on the other side of this gate must be in very, very deep trouble.

Her call echoes into the desert, followed by an ear-rending silence. Then, quite suddenly—

Thunder.

"Look at that, the old Gatekeeper still has it in him." Fandral grins, looking up at the sky, which is beginning to swirl and churn into a dark, gray mass, directly above them and the mark on the ground. "Come on, Loki. One chance at this."

Lightning. Cosmic energy arcing out in great, sweeping motions.

And suddenly—

"You're really leaving." She states, not loud enough for the others to hear, just him, where he is standing beside her. He takes a few steps forward, back still turned, so that she can only make out his green cape, his slicked back hair.

For some reason, some stupid, asinine reason, she didn't think he would.

But she wasn't sixteen anymore, and the world didn't end with happy endings.

He says nothing.

The storm overhead is getting worse as she swallows thickly and forces out, "Will you be back?"

He turns abruptly, stalks forward two steps, and wraps one arm firmly around her waist. She begins to protest, pressing the palms of her hands against the cool, metal of his armor, but then his lips crash down on hers.

It's desperate. Somewhat forced, rushed, but all she can think about is how she wants _more_, so she pushes herself into him, her hands finding the sides of his face, and he feels wonderfully and gloriously alive as his lips move over her own, his hand through her hair, and then, quite suddenly and entirely too quickly—

He pulls away, leaving her standing in the middle of the desert with a hand raised faintly to a slightly swollen mouth and her heart thudding and the painful realization that could have been the start and end of something.

He retreats back into the circle, standing before Sif and Fandral. His eyes are bright, and very, very green.

He smirks. "Perhaps."

And then the blinding white light takes all three of them and he's gone.


	16. Chapter 16

**a/n:** has it...really been...since december? i'm so sorry guys! i meant to write this sooner, but my finals were this week and i was studying for them last week and i just. hate school. ahaha

anyway! here is a new chapter. we are winding down, folks, but the story isn't over yet.

flashbacks are done for the moment, however, because we've learned all we need to about Loki's past.

and yeah. i'm fairly certain the next update will be within the week, but if it isn't, i'm sorry! it definitely won't be a month again.

ok, this is getting long, but i just wanted to thank everyone who reviewed/favorited/the like. really, i know i keep saying this, but you guys taking the time to review—and they are really awesome reviews—and read this story just means a lot. so thank you. :)

and, without further ado.

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><p>"Keep his eyes open."<p>

"It's difficult."

"Do it."

He's floating in a strange sort of haze; the world in front of him is a foggy blur, colored a golden yellow at the ends, but everything is bleeding together like ink on paper. He blinks rapidly, but that doesn't help at all, only makes it worse, and where is he, how did he get here—

"Stay awake, Thunderer."

The blow to the side of his head jars him roughly against the stocky body next to him, and for a single moment the world bursts into crystal clear sharpness—

—they are in his father's chambers and how did they get into his father's chambers and where are the others and oh yes, he sent Sif to warn his brother and they took him and killed the Aesir—

—then the world dulls; the gold floor loses some of its sheen. All he can seem to focus on, to grasp, is the quiet silence of the room, and it terrifies him more than anything, more, even, than Laufey's voice when it rings suddenly, raspy and low, right by his ear, icy breath on his neck.

"Pointless, sending your woman to find the Casket." The monster smiles. Thor's head hangs limply on his neck, and he can't seem to find the energy to hold it up straight, to meet the Jotun's eyes, but he does dredge up some of his former strength, enough to send a bloodied, petulant smile in the beast's direction. The grip on either of his arms, held roughly behind him by two more Jotuns, tightens. "Thor Odinson. Foolish to the last." Laufey straightens, tall, dwarfing the golden room and everything in it.

Thor's legs feel like lead beneath him, knees and boots scraping the floor. He struggles for consciousness, but it's like swimming through calm, thick, open water and he can't seem to find the surface. He's reminded suddenly of the time his brother found the foreign drugs and convinced him to try some—

"_Only a bit of fun, brother. Come on."_

"You're probably wondering about your people. The great Asgardians." Laufey cants his head thoughtfully to one side, his face blank, and all Thor can see in that look is his brother, because Loki has sent the very same one his way a million times before. "They will fall, of course. They will be the first to fall. After your father."

Thor blinks. The blackness eating away at the edges of his consciousness is beginning to ebb. Think. Come on. Think. What would Loki do?

It's so _hard_, because there is a disconnect between his mind and his body, so that every little movement seems to happen ten seconds after he wishes it. He runs his tongue over his teeth and it tastes of blood. His eyes rove the blank, cool gold of the floor before him. Three Jotuns. The rest must still be outside.

That's a start.

Then he sees the crumpled form by his father's bed, the soft gold dome of the Odinsleep casting an eerie witch-light, and his mind falls back into the dark abyss and he can't think, can hardly even breathe, and all he wants is to _smite_ Laufey into the deepest pit of _Hel_—

"Ah. The defiance in your face. You finally found your mother." Laufey takes three long steps and bends down by the prone form. "Yes. She had fire, but, ultimately, it wasn't enough." The monster turns, so that red, red eyes are suddenly staring him down. The anger rises in him like a wave, strong, powerful, and he surges forward against the two creatures restraining him.

"If you hurt her, Laufey—"

"Not hurt. Not yet." The monster-king straightens. "I'm glad to see there is some fight left in you. I want you to know, Thor Odinson, what I plan to do."

There is a loud rushing in his ears and his whole world tilts dangerously. For the first time he becomes acutely aware of the sharp fire in his chest, abdomen, arms, and—

Three broken ribs. Two fractures, one along his right thigh and the other his right arm. No condition. No condition to fight—

"First, I shall kill the AllFather, and you shall watch." As the beast speaks, voice like ice on gravel, the sound of the dead rising and the earth falling, as the thing speaks it moves slowly around the fallen form of his mother and begins circling the bed of his father. Thor struggles again, but a sharp pain in his lower stomach sends him careening wildly to the side. "Then I shall kill the bride Frigga." It stops, looking down at the man sleeping beneath the cage of golden energy, head tilted to one side. "But I shan't kill you. Not yet. First you will watch me slaughter your people, whom you have so thoughtfully penned in the other half of your palace. Then you will watch me take the Bifrost. Just before I bring the rest of the Frost Giants to their rightful throne on Asgard I will kill you." Laufey's smile is deadly. "So think about what you've done."

Stall.

Loki would say stall. _"Play to the weaknesses of your enemy, brother. Sometimes skill is better than strength."_

"Hog—" He coughs and blood, stark, crimson, splashes against the floor in front of him as he strains against his captors. He continues, "Hogun will come. And Volstagg. And countless more Aesir—"

"They think the battle is still at the gates. Your little friends left their positions as guards to check on the army there. Pay attention, Odinson. You have lost."

"There is no way to defeat Asgardians while they reside on Asgard itself—"

"No. Of course not. Which is why I will kill your king and watch you run around, leaderless. Oh! Oh, that look. That look you give me, right now. You think _you_ could be leader, Odinson?" Laufey barks out a laugh. "Do not mock the title of king!" The Jotun takes a step up towards the platform where his father rests. "I will kill Odin AllFather. I will take the Bifrost. And with an army from Jotunheim I will slaughter your people. Then I will move on to the next world, and I will find the Casket. You think your brother can hide it from me?"

"I know he can."

"You idiotic, foolish man. You trust him, even after all that he has done?"

"Baldr's death—"

"I'm not talking about the death of that insignificant worm." Laufey spits, for the moment advance forgotten. The monster turns towards him. "I'm talking about the way he let us in, to spoil your coronation."

For a long while there is silence. He can hear nothing except the distant echo of the words. His mouth opens once, twice, but no sound. At last Laufey says, "He tries to speak! Let him go."

"But my liege—" one of the Jotuns begins.

"I said do it!"

Thor is dropped roughly, the glassy surface rising to meet him, painfully. His head clatters sharply against the granite-like material. His breath leaves him, but maybe it had left him before, maybe he hasn't bee breathing for a long while now—

He struggles to his knees, but he can _feel_ his life slipping away. His fight.

He can _feel_ it.

"You lie." He manages at last.

"You call me the liar." Laufey shakes his head. "Your brother showed us the way into this world, son of Odin, the crack, the break in the Bifrost. And interfered with your becoming king."

"Stop _lying_!" Thor roars, hands clenching, slipping as he tries to regain his feet.

"I'm sure he never thought it would come to this." Laufey smiles icily. "It's funny. By stopping your becoming king, he led Asgard to its death. Such is fitting of the boy. Bringing around Ragnarok. The end of all things. The beginning of a new era."

Thor's breath is coming in short, ragged gasps, and all he can see—

_"It'll come, in time. If it's any consolation, I think you're right. About the Frost Giants, about Laufey, about everything. If they were able to slip past Asgard's defenses once, whose to say they won't try again. Next time with an army."_

"The truth hurts, doesn't it, boy? Maybe that's why your brother hides in the shadows."

_"The House of Odin is full of traitors…"_

"But enough. I am unusually talkative today. All this victory. Going to my head."

_"Really, how do I look?"_

_"Like a king."_

Thor slips and he collapses back onto the floor, arms outstretched, eye level with the unmoving figure of his mother and the ugly, coarse feet of the Jotuns, barely able to make out the movements of Laufey as he ascends towards the AllFather.

His _brother_.

The man he supported after he murdered a family member, the man he trusted, the man whom he considered his _best_ _friend_—

His _brother_.

"It's said you can still hear and see what transpires around you. I hope it's true, so that you may know your death came at the hand of Laufey." The giant's voice is thoughtful, quiet. Thor's world is fading along the edges and he can't decide who's more to blame, him or his brother, his damnable, liar, cheat of a brother—

"And _your_ death came by the son of Odin!"

The sky rends.

A bolt of lightning splits the wall opposite him, shattering it into a million shimmering pieces. Laufey is flung wide by the blast, through the opening and down, out of sight, plummeting to the ground, several hundred yards below.

"Thor!"

The Jotuns on either side of him fall.

He doesn't move.

"Thor!" The voice repeats, and its like a balm to his wounds several hours too late. He spies the hilt of Fandral's weapon embedded chest deep in one monster. Sif's staff pins the other to the floor.

"By the AllFather—" Strong hands at his arms and suddenly he is turned, rolled rather unceremoniously so that his eyes now face the ceiling. Sif's visage looms above him, chapped and scarred and sun-beaten and bloody and he would even say beautiful, but such thoughts flit quickly from his mind.

"_Your brother showed us the way into this world, son of Odin."_

"He is slipping—Loki—"

"Hold his head steady, Sif, there's a love—"

"For the love of the gods, please, would both of you _shut up_."

Thor cannot work his mouth and cannot make sense of his emotions. That voice. Dark.

Misunderstood, part of him says.

Evil, screams the other.

It doesn't matter anyway, because he can no longer feels his legs. The numb of betrayal sped up his demise better than any drug.

Slow, deliberate footsteps.

"Thor? Thor, can you hear me? Hold on, please. We found Loki. Everything's going to be alright now, you'll see—"

His brother steps into his line of sight. His armor is polished. He bears no wounds, no marks of his banishment. Not a hair out of place. His eyes are very, very green and Thor meets them, defiantly—

And he knows in that instance that Loki knows. Knows that Thor is no longer as oblivious as once believed.

And maybe it is just his wish, his addled, death haunted brain playing tricks, but he thinks he catches the twinge of regret before it is quickly masked over. And then he sees, in the graceful fingers of his brother—the betrayer—his brother—

MjoInir.

Why would Loki have MjoInir if not to usurp his title, his throne, his rightful place?

"Loki, damn it, do some magic already, will you? Stop _staring_ like that, you bastard." Fandral is loosing his cool, slowly, surely. Sif is biting her lip so hard it bleeds. And still, the two brothers stare.

Thor feels his last breaths coming. Too much damage to heal this time.

Why would Loki want to, anyway? To heal him? The throne was practically his.

Loki blinks once, languidly, and then his eyes travel to the weapon in his hand. Thor finds the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth, hot, heavy, and it is becoming harder to breathe, but still, in that moment, he can _see_—

Jealousy. Anger. Hate. Regret.

—and he thinks Loki will not give up MjoInir.

That moment of hesitation.

Then it passes, and with deliberate, jerky motions, too quickly, as if he does not want to second guess himself, Loki kneels down next to Sif, unfolds his clenched fist, and places the hammer inside the cradle of Thor's palm.

Thunder.

It fills his veins like a second life force, rushing up and mending his bruises and battered bones and organs; the blood in his mouth recedes; he finds he can breathe; the blurred edges of his world flatten out into something sharp, crystalline, smooth—

And, like an echo of a dream:

"_Whosoever holds this hammer, if he be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor."_

He stands, the power of the AllFather and Yggdrasil and the heart of a dying star filling him up so that he cannot remember what the word for weak is, so that he only wants to smash his way towards the Bifrost and take back his home. He spares one fleeting glance at his father, his father who did so many things he did not understand—

His father, who had saved him with his stupid, damnable magic.

"Oh, thank the gods." Sif sits back roughly, letting her breath out in a hiss. "Thank you."

"Well, that was a little close for my liking, now wouldn't you agree?" Fandral stutters to his feet. "Not as close as Loki, mind, but still close." Thor wants to ask but knows that now is not the time, and he is already away, crouching next to the prone figure on the steps of his father's bed.

"Sif, Fandral. See to it my mother gets medical attention."

"Is she—?" Loki starts, then stops; Thor would find this unusual if the situation were not so strange.

"No, only unconscious."

"What about you?" Sif finally stands. She takes a step towards him, frowning, and for a moment he thinks she is going to punch him across the jaw, but she stops, flexing her fingers. "Do _not_ expect me to go running anymore inane errands for you."

"I will have words with my brother." Is all he says. Then: "Hurry. Check the others. Fortify the defenses—it is not safe until I _say_ it is safe. Understood?"

Sif raises her chin, looking up at him once, eyes flashing, before bending down beside Fandral. Thor watches as together the two support the limp Frigga between them, out the open chamber door and into the empty hall beyond—

And all the while, his father sleeps, peacefully. Silently.

Thor is envious.

For once, he is envious of the nothing.

The door shuts. Immediately:

"I know what you did." Thor grits out, his teeth clenched tightly, his nails digging into his palm as he grips MjoInir. "Do not try to lie your way out of this one, _brother_."

Loki regards him thoughtfully, coolly. "I find it appalling that after all we've been through, you still do not trust me. No, instead you trust the words of a madman."

"_You are a madman!_"

"Of course. All the best people are."

"Loki, explain yourself, or I will strike you down—"

"I'd like to see you try."

"Do not _test_ me!"

"What do you want, Thor? An apology?" Loki sneers. "I am not sorry. I will never be sorry for my actions, as long as I live. You were not ready to take the crown. I showed the Jotuns the crack, yes, a crack that _one or two_ could slip through—I certainly was not the one who invited _the entire Jotun army_ to march on Asgard!"

"You did not want me to be king!"

"I did not want a _foolish child_ _on the throne_!" Loki straightens, cutting a regal figure in his full battle armor, nostrils flaring, and Thor steps up to the challenge, and it's the first time in his entire life that Loki has directed that sharp point of his anger at him—normally it would be reserved for Baldr—

But Baldr is dead.

"How can I ever trust you again?" Thor levels MjoInir at him. His brother does not move.

"No one else does. Why should you be any different?" Loki smiles mirthlessly. A long, heady pause follows. Thor is breathing heavily, as if he just ran a race. His brother looks unruffled. Then: "I did what I did for the betterment of Asgard. Now, I seek to expel the Jotun threat." He pauses artfully. "I have the Casket."

"You brought it _back _with you?"

"You did not expect me to _leave_ it, did you?"

"I am sure you could have found a suitable hiding place for it on Midgard."

"Midgard is useless."

"Oh, I am glad to see your banishment taught you so much."

His eyes flash. "The Jotuns cannot reach the Casket so long as I have it in my possession."

Ignore. That's all Loki does, ignore, ignore, ignore—

"So confident."

"Of course. Now why aren't you?"

"Excuse me?"

"You ordered Sif and Fandal to retreat."

"Mother was injured."

"Indeed."

Thor, rather reluctantly, turns his back on the hawk-like figure in front of him and walks over to the great hole in the side of the wall, through which he feels the summer breeze. "He is not dead. I know Laufey could not be defeated so easily." He can't help but add, "Especially by one who does not know how to wield MjoInir."

Loki doesn't rise to the bait. Instead: "Where will he go?"

"The Bifrost."

"A tactical retreat, then."

"We must make sure he leaves."

"A forced tactical retreat, then."

For a moment it is like none of the business ever happened. For a moment they are brothers again, bantering, bickering, comfortable in the presence of the other. Thor wants to ask about the banishment. Wants to ask how he got his hands on—let alone lifted—MjoInir. There is not much changed about Loki, but there is something—

Something slight.

But he doesn't. Instead he clenches his fist. "We must kill these monsters once and for all. I will not stop until every single one is dead or dying. Do you understand?" He turns fiercely to meet his brother's eyes. There is something unreadable there; Thor would say sadness, except that Loki is _never_ sad, but then—

He didn't think Loki would ever betray him, either. He turns away, saying:

"To war." And he sends MjoInir spinning in his grip so that he is lifted off the ground, but before he flies off he hears, faintly, the voice of his brother, mocking, dark—

"For Asgard."


	17. Chapter 17

**edit:** guys i'm so sorry! FF seems to be down and i don't know how to fix it. if you got like a million notices of a new chapter i'm sorry-i was just trying to upload until it worked. sorry for the issues, and hopefully this will work!

**a/n:** hands down the hardest chapter to write, and ugh, i can tell. blah. but this is it guys! i have an epilogue. so one more update to this story. stay tuned, and in the meantime thank you so much for your lovely reviews, the story alerts, and the faves!

please read and review :)

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><p>"Come on, Jane."<p>

"No."

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><p>He's pulled from a world of liquid green-white, landing on the impossible bridge stretching between the Observatory and the palace so that it sputters colorfully to life for a single, brief moment, before fading back to an odd transparency. On either side of him is the rushing ocean; he's far past any boundaries that his mother used to set for him and his brother when they were children. No, this—this is the End of All Things, where the ocean rushes past to collide against the softened sea rocks primed with algae, moss, slipping past the cracks and off the Edge of the World, into the Void, the nothing. The sea of stars and nebula and galaxies that meant death should anyone try to cross them without the aid of the Bifrost or the pull of a crack. Nothing. Suffocating space.<p>

Loki looks swiftly to his left and his right, trying to judge the distance between himself and the edges of the Rainbow Bridge—hardly the place for a fight. No room to maneuver, to attempt any sort of battle formation, and taking the conflict into the Observatory would be risky. He rubs the bridge of his nose; for a moment he imagines bones cracking; then he looks to the sky.

Thor slices through the summer clouds that are beginning to tinge the sunset at the far ends of Asgard, behind the palace, a deep pink. Already the night sky is dotted white. His brother falls heavily, in a manner that would seem ungraceful to those who did not know the nature of the power he wielded. MjoInir comes to a slow, twirling stop at his side and Loki fights the urge to roll his eyes at the figure his brother cuts—wind-tossed and regal and damned _annoying_.

"Is Laufey here yet?" He asks. Loki sends him a baleful look.

"Obviously not."

"And Heimdall?"

"Went to protect the AllFather." Loki looks behind him at the empty building, littered with the prone, dead bodies of Jotun that, despite their size, managed to look somehow vulnerable. "He gives his regards."

"He is supposed to follow the orders of the king." Thor begins to pace, width-wise, across the bridge and again Loki has to watch his words—he's already standing on thin ice with his brother. He would hate to fall through entirely.

"Feel free to reprimand him, brother, after he has thoroughly eradicated the remaining Jotun threat within the palace walls. I believe he was acting on experience, of which he has a good deal more than you."

Too far.

"Do not test me, Loki." Thor stops moving and sends him a sharp, pointed look. "I would hate for MjoInir to slip from my hands."

"Oh, do please grow up, _brother_; mayhaps then the Asgardians will not be ashamed to have you as king."

"Loki—"

"Enough. Our prey approaches."

Thor has intelligence enough to shut his mouth quickly and Loki is granted a moment's peaceful reprieve, breeze and darkness and ocean and threads of magic singing a soft symphony in his ear that is soon ruined by heavy, dark footsteps coming up the bridge. The magic screams a warning. Progressing from the palace complex are three mon—

Jotuns.

Laufey stands in the middle; there is a gaping hole in his side leaking black blood in thick, congealing strands down his leg; he is limping, red eyes stretched taunt and angry. On either side of him: the remaining guard; but each looks as battered and bruised as their king.

It would seem that, despite the territorial and numerical disadvantage, they might win this battle after all.

Thor settles back to face the oncoming threat, falling into place beside him, looking about as calm as that mortal Darcy after three cups of coffee and—

Damn. He could not afford to think about Midgard.

Not now.

Not ever again.

He focuses on the steps of the Frost Giants as they make their labored way up the Rainbow Bridge, counts them, for something to do, and because the silence is beginning to press heavily against his ears—

One. Two. Three. Four.

"Loki Odinson." Laufey's voice is cracked, broken, and so low he can barely hear it. His brother bristles at not being addressed. At last the party of three comes to a stop across from them. He does not bother to acknowledge the king, merely stares pointedly at him and calculates, because this battle is easily winnable so long as Thor does not do something rash. "It seems I underestimated you."

"You would not be the first." He smiles coldly. "Or the last."

"Yet I wonder, will your brother ever trust you again?"

"You think that you can manipulate us; you think we will be taken in by your lies." Thor levels MjoInir at the king, ignores what is said ("You were taken in by your brother's easily enough) and continues, "But we are not hear to discuss matters of the past—only those of the present. And you will not make it back to Jotunheim alive for all that you have wrought upon Asgard."

"Thor Odinson, I am no longer interested in you." Loki frowns, because Laufey's eyes are fixed against his own, and he's taken back to that night days, weeks, months ago when he had pushed the crack out of a fit of anger and walked, unannounced, into the home of the Jotuns. "You are nothing more than a child. And I did not craft Asgard's doom—you did. Your brother did. Together the pair of you are a deadlier combination than any war."

"Brother—" Loki cuts in with a warning, because Thor is livid, he can sense it, the anger rolling off of him in waves, but before he can do anything, really, Thor is bounding forward, hatred propelling him into a giant, sweeping leap, bringing MjoInir crashing down onto the head of the nearest Jotun—but they were expecting it, expecting something, and his brother has never been one for subtly—

The nearest Jotun, the one to the left of Laufey, straightens quite quickly, injuries forgotten—most likely faked—and dodges the first swing of Thor's hammer, adjusts his position slightly and turns to wrap a meaty hand around his brother's ankle. Momentum carries them back and the second Jotun finishes it, bounding around his king to slam Thor squarely into the Rainbow Bridge. MjoInir scatters out of his hand, across the glass-like surface, then tumbles over the side. Loki grabs a hold of the magic and does not let go, even as the hammer strains against him. Somewhere far below it disappears in a flash of liquid white-green.

All the while he has not moved.

Now Thor is attempting to catch his breath, pinned under two perfectly healthy Jotun who are leaning heavily against his chest. Laufey laughs. "It would seem I was mistaken! You do not even move to help your brother."

"I sense he is in no immediate danger." Loki takes a causal step forward, eagle eye trained on the scene at hand. Thor is struggling wildly, casting quick, surreptitious glances towards the open air beneath him.

Loki cannot imagine what would have happened had MjoInir tumbled off into the Void. The weapon would have broken a thousand planets. A million worlds.

Honestly, his brother could be such an _idiot_—

He doesn't have time to finish his thought because one of the Jotuns is suddenly pressing a razor thin dagger, formed from his forearm, ice dripping in the heat, against the open skin of Thor's throat. He spies a thick line of red blossoming into reality and stops moving. He takes a very sharp breath through his nose because he cannot—must not—let the situation get out of hand.

"Are we a threat now?"

"Your lackeys, surely." Loki keeps the tight smile. "But you? Hardly."

"You were both foolish to follow us here." Laufey laughs, horribly. "When you could have escaped with your lives."

"We still will."

"Are you so sure?" Laufey cants his head. "What's the point of it, anyway, son of Odin? He will never trust you as he once did. People will still think you are a monster." He lets the word hang in the air for a moment and Loki's finger twitches. "I see the power of the AllFather healed Thor, but not mentally—physically you both may be fit, but mentally you are in no state to wage a battle. Even against me."

Thor had stopped struggling. The frost dagger, crystalline and faceted, catches the last rays of the dying sun as it is pressed farther into the soft flesh of his neck. Loki sees seven possible outcomes, none of which end happily. He opens his mouth to speak but the Jotun beats him to it.

"Give us the Casket."

Ah. Scenario four.

"I do not have it."

"I would almost believe you, if I did not know you to be a Silver-Tongued liar." Laufey smirks. "And if your brother's woman did not let the information slip some time ago."

"If I give you it, will you let him go?"

"Perhaps."

"Will you leave Asgard in peace?"

"Perhaps."

Loki sends his mind's eye to the negative space where the Casket sits, patiently. There is a small, blue light beating from within, like a heartbeat, but other than that the thing is silent. He takes a deep breath.

Must be quick.

Inhale—

Take them by surprise.

* * *

><p>"Jane, please, can we go home now?"<p>

"Not yet."

* * *

><p>—exhale.<p>

He cuts the strings of magic and the Casket appears in a pool of liquid white-green so that he's holding it, between his hands, and, with the still-odd sensation in the pit of his stomach, the tugging in his naval, the thing roars to life with a bright, bright blue, sending a harsh winter wind towards the two Frost Giants holding Thor and catching them off-guard. The two roar, tumbling backwards but otherwise unharmed. His brother springs to his feet—

"Here!" Loki cuts, again, and the strings holding MjoInir snap so it lands lightly against his palm. He expects it, for a moment, to be heavy, a million black holes and a million dying suns, but he can barely discern its weight as it materializes; he catches, holds, and throws; Thor calls; MjoInir returns to his brother's hand.

A crack of thunder, and then lightning splits the world in two. Loki smells ozone, singed hair—one of the Jotuns falls, eyes still open, over the side of the bridge and into the ocean below, body cracking and melting. He turns his eyes on Laufey, cold, cool, calm, collect—

It was under control, now.

"Did you think me so naïve?" He snarls. "To believe the word of a _Jotun_?"

Laufey is regarding him with passive, blank eyes that Loki cannot read. Silence falls once more across the Bifrost. Thor levels his hammer at the remaining Frost Giant, who moves from one foot to the other rather uneasily. At last the king says, still clutching his side, "Thor Odinson. Did you know that it takes Jotun blood to wield the Casket of Ancient Winters?"

It takes a moment for Thor to register what he's hearing, and Loki watches the process, the shock of it all, unfold on his face. First the angry furrowing of the brows; then the heady surprise; and finally, truth. "Impossible." Is all he manages.

"I wonder if you are hiding something from us, Loki Odinson." Laufey grins, pauses, then: "I had a child, once. A runt. I abandoned him to die, during the Old War, because he was useless. Weak. Afterwards I had my men search the bodies of the dead, but the child was never found."

Loki can't seem to work his mouth. The world is reeling, tilting dangerously, and all he can see are the red, red eyes in front of him—

"It's not true. Father would never—Loki, it's not true. Brother—"

"I'm not your brother!" He manages at last, ripping his gaze away from Laufey and meeting instead the blue-storm one of Thor. "I never was!"

"I wonder." Laufey straightens fully for the first time, skin ripping around his wound, which had slightly cauterized under the sub-freezing temperatures of the Giant's hand. "I wonder if we should really be calling you Loki Laufeyson?"

He feels sick, and he can't see straight, and everything is blurring and what's going on and why is this happening and why is Thor yelling at him, what is Thor yelling at him—

He's pulled from the shock by a rough hand around his upper arm; he twists, lithely, but still off-balance; the momentum carries them both crashing into the Rainbow Bridge, which sparks an ugly shade of red. The Casket skitters from his grip, porcelain on glass, sliding away, out of reach, but his mind's still reeling from the appearance of another Jotun, very much alive and breathing heavily into his face.

He jerks, inartistically, at two strings of magic and the blade that comes to his hand is weak, poor, dull enough not to cut but sharp enough to still hurt. The Jotun rolls away, hissing, and Loki sends a kick to follow—

Of course. The bodies, in the Observatory—

Playing dead.

_How clever_, he thinks, but his bravado is gone.

The Jotun scrambles to his feet; Loki rolls to the side, stopping himself just before the bridge drops off to open ocean, then springs backwards with three more throwing knives that embed themselves into the creature's arm. A noise, then, over the blood rushing in his ears—

"You are not the only one with healing powers!" Laufey directs at Thor. Loki turns, just in time to see the Frost Giant grip the fallen Casket, and then there is nothing but ice, wind, a tumult, and Loki senses the threads of magic screaming in protest as energy is drawn towards Laufey to stitch up his side.

Never, ever give the enemy the advantage.

Think. Think, think, thinkthinkthink—

Then—

He feels a sharp pain in his lower back.

* * *

><p>"Jane—"<p>

"Shut _up_, Darcy."

* * *

><p>Loki hisses, stumbling away and sending a bolt of pure energy into his assailant, knocking the Jotun back and over the edge, into the water below. He's already off-balance, twisting, fighting, scrabbling at the air for some purchase but his foot slips—<p>

In that awful moment before the fall, he closes his eyes—

—all he can see is the stupid, mouse of a girl—

—something grips his arm and he jerks against it, hard, his shoulder nearly disconnecting from the socket. He gasps in pain, eyes flying open.

"Not today, brother."

Loki blinks past Thor's figure, the dark red line across his neck, to look at Laufey on the bridge, whole and healed again, sauntering past towards the Observatory with a smirk. "You can't let him go."

"He has the Casket. We must retreat."

Loki pulls his other arm up to grip the edge of the Bifrost. Thor drags him the rest of the way. "Moments ago you wanted to destroy their entire race."

"We need—"

"What, time to rest our wounds?" His voice is caustic, bitter, the words acrid as they fight their way up his throat. "He will destroy the Nine Realms. Leaving us alive is not a mercy—it is a punishment. So that we can watch."

"And if we fight now, and both die?"

"So be it." Loki sneers. "Just like you to become noble in the end, when things are beginning to finally _matter_."

"Loki, I know you want to hurt him. After what he said. But not in this state—"

"No." Loki stands, meeting Thor's eyes. "I want to kill him."

What he can't bring himself to say—

_I want to kill him because he will try to conquer Midgard. _

He finds his options are bare, at best, but startlingly clear. He looks past the retreating figure of Laufey into the golden Observatory, where Gugnir still rests, quivering, in its stand, where the Frost Giant could conceivably open up a path to all the Nine Realms. He turns his eyes back to Thor. He says:

"Do not mourn me."

Then he opens his palm and calls. MjoInir obeys willingly, and before Thor can hold him back he is gone, compressed, teleported into a world of white-green—

By the time he comes out the other side he has already made up his mind.

He strikes the bridge.

* * *

><p>"Jane, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."<p>

"…he's not coming back, is he?"

* * *

><p>The world explodes into bright bursts of color and Thor can only hear the sharp rip-tear as the Observatory slides away into oblivion and lightning blue energy cackles about him. He is thrown backwards by the force of the blast but he fights the wind, pushing his arm out and calling, calling, calling—<p>

MjoInir does not return to him, but he returns to MjoInir.

He shoots forward, towards the broken edge of the Bifrost, tipping dangerously over the Void so that he can see the remnants of the building and perhaps a king now tumbling to nothing in the stars below. At the last second he catches hold of the now-jagged ends of the Bifrost and throws his other hand out wide, hoping, praying, _feeling_ MjoInir straining towards him—

At last.

He feels his legs, free, tossed in a slight breeze. The blood is beginning to run hot down his hand, and he does not know how they are going to get out of this one.

Loki is hanging from the handle of MjoInir, hand wedged firmly beneath his own. He meets green, green eyes.

"Why?" Thor finds he is shouting above the explosion that is still ringing in his ears. "Why did you do it?"

Loki seems to have to rouse himself to respond, and when he does his voice is cold, distant. "I was repaying the favor. Odin AllFather saved me and now I have saved his kingdom. We are even."

"Don't—" The words hurt. "Don't talk like that."

"I am the monster that people tell their children about at night."

"You are not."

"And now people have more of a reason to hate me." He smiles, grimly. "I believe I have served my purpose here."

It all happens so fast.

"Loki—"

A weight is gone.

"NO!"

And in the end Thor cannot tell if he fell—

—or merely slipped from his grasp.


	18. Epilogue

**a/n: **i'm sad about posting this, because i've practically been working on it for_ever_. if you started at the beginning and stuck through till the end-thank you. if you came in the middle-thank you. if you came now-thank you. all your reviews, and faves, and alerts have kept me going, and i really appreciate it! hopefully the avengers will be good enough that i can write a new au wherein Loki saves the day :D

so thanks, everybody. i've loved writing this, and i'm going to miss it. see you soon, keep writing, keep creating. you all better go to the midnight avengers premiere. until then-

assemble.

* * *

><p><strong>One Day, Nine Hours<br>**

Jane stays up all night because she is an adult, and she damn well can if she wants to, thank you very much. She watches the sun set in the west and watches the sky turn a beautiful shade of pink and watches the clouds come to take its place and then watches the stars, one-by-one, and all the while she watches the desert, too. The lawn chair cracks beneath her every time she moves, and the shadows of the fire play havoc in her peripheral vision so that she finds herself jerking towards an imaginary figure once, twice, three times a minute.

* * *

><p><strong>One Week, Two Hours, Twenty-Seven Minutes<strong>

Erik comes back from being kidnapped in a sedate looking black Sedan with a strange, dream-like expression on his face. Jane watches him step from the car into the bright, New Mexico sun and frowns.

"What's wrong with you?" Darcy stumbles out of the kitchen next to her, voicing, as per usual, what she could not. "You look like you saw a ghost. Or hit a deer. I can't really tell."

Erik doesn't say anything and the car drives off, as quickly as it had come.

"Was that who I think it was?" Jane remarks dryly, bitterly, half-wondering if the man needed an Alka-Seltzer. She opens her mouth to say something but decides against it, shuts it quickly, snaps it close. After a long moment in which all she can feel is heat, everywhere, she says, "I don't like them. I'd be fine if we never dealt with them again."

Erik turns his head jerkily, like a robot, until his tired eyes fine hers, and for a long, long moment all he does is stare. And continue staring. Her frown deepens. Just as she opens her mouth Darcy says, "What the hell did they feed you down at S.H.I.E.L.D, huh? Crack? Opium?"

"They asked me to investigate something." He says after a pause. "Something they found."

"And?" Jane licks her chapped lips. "You didn't say _yes_, did you?"

"I said it was worth a look." He puts his hands in his jacket pockets but the move looks forced, like his brain told him to do it and his body responded three seconds too late.

"Erik!" Jane snaps as Darcy says, "What is it? Is it Meow-Meow?"

The intern realizes her mistake and claps her hands quickly over her mouth, finishing lamely with, "I mean, uh, meow-meow. I think I found a cat. Over there. Did you hear that?" Then she canters off to safety in the lab before Jane can turn on her.

Smart girl.

Jane crosses her arms, trying to ignore the almost mention of a stupid hammer because that brought a stupid, idiotic, _ass_ of a man to mind, one whom she did _not_ want to think about—

"They are calling it a Cosmic Cube." Erik is still staring at her. His speech is strange. Jane doesn't think he's blinked in five minutes.

"You should have said no."

"It is something of great value."

"You should really lie down."

"A piece from Odin's Treasure Vault." And then he brushes past her inside, before she can ask what he means.

* * *

><p><strong>One Month, One Day, Thirty-Seven Minutes<strong>

The Red Ferrari pulls up in front of Isabella's Diner as she's leaving, hardly full from a breakfast she tried and failed to eat. Erik was gone, away at S.H.I.E.L.D. Darcy was trying to write some paper for a Poli-Sci class that she had procrastinated beautifully on.

Jane was trying to forget.

The Red Ferrari helps her with that, momentarily, especially because the front license plate reads:

STARK 8

"OhmyGod." She exhales in a long whoosh that is carried away on a small, dry breeze. The engine is cut. The passenger side door opens.

"You are Jane Foster, are you not?" A deep, golden voice booms, and something in the pattern, the odd lilt, the phrasing, makes her wilt a little inside, and then she looks up at a figure, broad-shouldered, clad in silver regalia, with blonde hair and blue, blue eyes, and, because she is stupid, and dumb, she thinks that maybe the driver's side will open and reveal someone with green, green eyes, but instead—

"Hey, babe." Tony Stark winks at her from the front seat. "Wanna ride?"

* * *

><p><strong>One Month, Two Weeks, Six Days, Seven Hours, Twelve Minutes<strong>

"We brought you in on this project, Ms. Foster, because we have been assured by multiple sources that you are one of the best up-and-coming astrophysicists of our time. Please, tell me I won't be disappointed."

"It's a cube." She deadpans, not liking the look that—what was his name? Fury something?—was giving her.

"Sound observation." Erik quips, sounding so totally and completely unlike himself for one moment that she is caught off-balance; she swings quickly towards him. There is a glint in his eye. "But I was hoping you'd go deeper."

She stares.

"I think what Mr. Selvig is trying to say, Ms. Foster," Nick Fury crosses his arms, drawing the attention back to himself, and Jane feels that at any moment he will pull out a cigar, "is that you should have more information for us."

"It's energy patterns are unlike anything I've ever seen before." She says quickly, still reeling. "Something akin to those a dying star would give off—"

"Can it be harnessed? Used?"

"I don't know. I think I need more time."

"We do not have that luxury, Ms. Foster." Fury bites out her name.

"Well, then, I think we should toss it back in the Artic Ocean from which it was spawned." She snaps, grabbing her jacket from the back of her lab chair and stalking from the room, the echo of a voice still playing in her ears.

* * *

><p><strong>One Month, Three Weeks, Three Hours, Twenty-Eight Minutes<strong>

She watches the news from the little television in the helicarrier's kitchen because it's the only place she can get some peace and quiet.

"…destroying cities. I've never seen anything like it—"

_Change._

"—fire. Everyone in the Tri-State Area is being evacuated—"

_Change._

"—strange objects spotted overhead—"

_Off_.

She blinks away the last impression, staring instead at the blackness of the TV screen, which is dull and matte and seems to absorb all light that comes near it. The person who turned off the television sits heavily in a stool next to her, and she goes to examining the mug in her hands.

"What are you drinking?"

"Coffee."

"Ah." There is a long pause. Jane fights the urge to roll her eyes. At last she looks up, to the side, and meets Thor's gaze.

"Would you like some?"

He smiles, and Jane doesn't know how he can smile when—when—

She stands, nearly knocking over her stool, and busies herself with the coffee pot, for something to do. Grateful for the distraction. "My brother came to Midgard, once before."

Her heart stops. She remembers the fire, the destruction, of the TV and her hand shakes once as she lifts the sugar.

"Oh?"

"Yes. He never told me of what befell him here."

She stirs, metal clinking against glass.

"He would not do this without reason." He gestures vaguely to the screen, as if taking in the destruction with a single, dismissive glance. So much faith. Too much faith.

She brings the mug and slides it into his grasp; his hands are clunky.

"I must have words with him. He thinks himself an outcast."

"Yeah, well, at the rate he's going that will be the _least_ of his problems." Jane snaps, and the cringe follows quickly. "Sorry. I just—no. Sorry. How did he—I mean, how did he. You know, leave As—your home? Where do you come from again?"

"Do not play the foolish mortal, Jane Foster." She looks away. "I heard from Selvig. You knew my brother."

"Yeah. Well."

Thor takes a small sip of coffee; then another, and another; between these he meets her gaze, steadily, and says, "He fell."

Her nails bite into her palm.

There is a long, heavy silence; she traces oblique patterns on the counter. Then, suddenly—

Glass shatters on the floor. She starts straight forward, looking around for the source of the noise, and finds the white mug she had given Thor is now in several large pieces on the metal ground of the helicarrier. He's grinning from ear to ear, like a child.

"This drink! I like it! Another!"

* * *

><p><strong>Two Months, Eight Hours, Twelve Minutes<strong>

She's expecting it, is waiting for it, but that still doesn't mean she's ready for it when the door finally opens. She keeps her gaze directed resolutely at the gray material in front of her, hands looped through the handles of a big mug that Tony Stark—

—_Tony Stark_—

—had slid over to her when she first sat down. Around the oval table there are three others.

The genius scientist in question; Bruce Banner; and Thor.

She doesn't turn to face the newcomer. Everyone else does, but she taps the pads of her fingers against the lip of the cup and waits, studying Thor underneath her eyelashes: he's all gold, bronze, muscular in a showy way that _he_ never was. He sits with stooped shoulders, looking tired, sad, but that doesn't stop him from emanating that royal sort of feel—

"Ms. Foster?"

Nick Fury's voice is loud. Too loud. Grating. She doesn't turn. Instead she takes a sip of her coffee.

"Yes?"

"He wants to speak to you." Heavy boot falls. "In fact, the way I understand it—he will speak _only _to you." He is suddenly very close and very personal, nearly touching her elbow with splayed hands on the metal table. "Now why is that?"

There is a moment of heady silence broken only by the scrape of metal across the floor and then:

"And you wonder why no one likes you, Fury." Tony snorts, kicking back his chair and propping his feet up on the table.

"Stay out of this, Stark."

"Hey, you hired me."

"And of me?" Thor breaks in, frowning. "Did he not say anything of me?"

"Only Ms. Foster here." He brings himself down to her eye level, gazing steadily at her. She finally looks up.

"What, are you gonna lock me up?" She finds her patience is wearing thin. Banner stands abruptly.

"I'm sorry, but I try to keep my heart rate _below_ two-hundred beats per minute."

"Catch ya on the flipside, Hulkster."

"Stop it, Tony."

"Nope."

The metal door slides open and then shuts, leaving her alone with a god, a billionaire, and the nasty-ass leader of the organization that, though funding her research now, took it all away not two months ago.

But that cube. That damned cube. It was worth working with these idiots.

God, listen to her—

She was starting to sound like _him_.

"If I have to, I will." Fury's tone becomes even more condescending. "I don't think you understand, Jane."

"Ms. Foster." She snaps coldly.

"Ms. Foster." He repeats, frigidly. "I don't think you quite comprehend the situation here."

"I think I understand just fine. I think I have friends out there getting hurt the same as everyone else."

"By this man. The one in there. The one who wants to talk to _you_. Forgive me for being suspicious."

"I can attest for Ms. Foster's character, if it comes to that, Fury." Thor's voice is hard. "I do not like the tone you are using with her."

"Let me talk to him, then." Jane intercedes quickly, her stomach dropping somewhere below her feet, into the bowels of the helicarrier. "I'm sure you'll be spying on me the entire time, anyway—you're good at that."

He begins to protest. "I can't just—"

"If anyone can make him human, it's her, Fury." Stark sounds serious for once, but when Jane looks up he is trying to fish something out of his coffee cup that is filled with a suspiciously watery and tan substance. Whiskey? Rum? Both? "You want to get to the world's biggest psychopath? Let a woman talk to him."

A phone rings. Without looking down Tony pulls an item from his pocket, and for a moment Jane finds herself admiring the technology, the clear, holographic screen, before he puts it up to his ear.

"Hey hot stu—_what_? Yeah. Ok. Ok—ok, Pepper! Yeah, well, reschedule. You have to reschedule." He gets to his feet, sends a pointed, disrespectful look in the direction of Commander Fury, waves a little at Jane, and then leaves, following the path Banner had taken not two minutes earlier. "What do you _mean _you can't—"

The door cuts him off.

"I'm giving you five minutes." Fury straightens. "Any _hint_ of information you give him, any damn thing, and I will have you locked up until the moon turns red and the aliens take over the goddamned planet, you understand me?"

She meets Thor's eyes across the table; they are very blue. Kind eyes. But she can't read them.

She wonders, in a different time, where she turned left instead of right, how her life would have been if this brother had landed on Earth.

Then she stands and leaves without another word.

* * *

><p><strong>Two Months, Eight Hours, Forty-Four Minutes<strong>

There is a long metal corridor; she hears the whir of the engines on either side of her; in front is a door.

"You have five minutes." Fury reminds her unnecessarily, and then the door behind her is shut and she is left alone. She pushes herself straight, readies whatever sort of courage she still has left, and begins walking down the hall. At the end another panel, motion-controlled, slides open, and she blinks rapidly as she steps into a small, all white chamber. All white and blank and austere except for one thing—

In the center, a metal cage.

In the cage, a green figure, sitting languidly on the ground.

She inhales, sharply.

His hair is longer; he is cut and bruised, but somehow that doesn't make him look any less intimidating; he is as tall, hawkish, lithe as she remembered, but there is a dark cloud hanging around his eyes, which immediately find her own.

"Hello, Jane Foster."

She has to open her mouth a few times to get it to work. At last: "Hello, asshole."

He smirks. "This is a pretty cage." It widens into a grin. "But it was not meant for me."

"It can hold the Hulk." Jane points out, then wonders if that counts as giving information. "Why can't it hold you?"

"Because I am stronger."

She snorts, and it turns into a derisive sort of chuckle that dies half-way up her throat. She crosses her arms, saying, incredulously, "So why are you still here? If you're so _strong_."

"To talk to you."

That shuts her up.

For a single moment she wants to tell him how she wakes up after dreaming about green, green eyes and wormholes and golden worlds and how she makes up promises in her head, because memories bend and change so easily—instead:

"What, to make me look bad?" She focuses on the bars of the cage, made of adamantium and spaced mere centimeters apart. His figure is cut into little, thin slices. She remembers Bruce Banner in here, once, only he was a green monster who shook the whole helicarrier like a plaything with his anger. "You got Nick Fury believing I'm a traitor."

"Not my problem."

He's so callous.

So. Damn. Apathetic.

She steps towards the bars of the cage, every inch of her alert, screaming. He gracefully gets to his feet and steps as close to the bars as he can manage. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" He smiles.

He _smiles_, and all Jane can think about are the people dying outside and the people dying inside and _what happened to the man she had known_—

She swallows thickly, and says, slowly, low and deliberate, "Conquering Earth."

"I have my reasons."

"Of course. You always do." She wonders how much time she has left. Three minutes? Two?

"Did you think I cared for you?" He smirks, as if remembering the last time they had seen each other, two months ago in the New Mexico desert, surrounded by questions and urgency and something else.

Something else.

"It doesn't matter what I think." Her throat is dry. Her tongue is heavy. Her heart is breaking into a million pieces and she will never be all right again. "You know we'll stop you, right?"

"And by 'we' I assume you mean the Avengers." He smiles once more, blandly. "You wouldn't understand why I'm doing this." He rests up against the metal bars, sticking a graceful hand sideways through them—some cage, Fury—as if to reach for her, but it falls limply half-way there. "It's a chess game. A large one. Too complicated for your mortal mind."

"I hate you." It's the first thing that comes to her lips but she doesn't mean it. She can't mean it. Hates herself for not meaning it.

"Everyone does." His voice goes dark, cold. "I've gotten use to it."

She can't think of anything to say so she steps back, whispering:

"_What do you want_?"

He drops the half-grin. His face is blank. Passive. Except his eyes—they are storms. "To warn you. It will only get worse."

"I can't—"

Suddenly she finds she isn't staring at thin, metal bars, but, rather, a solid looking chest, decked in gold and green. She looks up slowly; he's smirking, broadly, but now that she's closer she can see what's lurking behind his eyes—

Death.

Alarms are blaring; she hears the pounding of S.H.I.E.L.D agents out in the hall; her world is gold and green, her heart doing a little dance in her chest, palpitations that make her feel weak at the knees, and then, with a sort of finality she isn't really accustomed to, he bends down and his lips are on hers—

Everything fades. Her fingers find his hair, pull him closer—he tastes like copper and shattered dreams—he's warm, so warm—then, just as suddenly as it starts —

It stops.

She breaks off, for air and because he moved—his voice is in her ear.

It isn't as cold. It isn't as psychotic. But then the doors slide open behind her and Fury roars, "STOP!"

Loki looks up once, directly at his attackers, smiles, razor thin, and then is gone in a flash of liquid white-green before the bullets that pepper the wall can reach him.

And she stands in the middle of it all, frozen, heart hammering, trying to figure things out, trying to understand, his last words echoing in her ear—

"Goodbye, Jane Foster."

* * *

><p><strong>Zero Months, Zero Days, Zero Hours, Zero Minutes<strong>


	19. Announcement

**a/n:** hi everyone! I'VE SEEN THE AVENGERS TOO MANY TIMES! needless to say, it is the best movie ever. also needless to say, i felt bad for Loki the _entire_ time. ugh. my psychopathic bby. poor thing.

so. i felt like writing something new. i felt like expanding on my psuedo-world i created in _Loki_.

so i have a sequel.

now **WARNING**: this might turn out horribly, and i might scrap the whole thing if i'm not happy with it. i'm just gauging interest right now, trying to work out plot, etc. to be honest, flipping _Thor_ around was a lot easier than flipping _The Avengers_.

so, yeah. i'm warning you all ahead of time: this is going to be a bumpy ride.

**i'm posting it in the "Avengers" category** on FF, in movies. specifics are below.

* * *

><p><strong>Disassembled<strong>

In which Loki is in over his head, the Avengers can't find any traction, Midgard falls to war, and to save the world the God of Mischief and Lies must, well—conquer it.

Rating: T

Pairings: Loki/Jane, Pepper/Tony (with hinted /Steve. Maybe.), Clint/Natasha, Thor/Sif, Random S.H.I.E.L.D Agent/Galaga

* * *

><p>so yeah! check it out if you want :) in the meantime GO WATCH THE AVENGERS AGAIN BECAUSE HOLY TESSERACT, BATMAN.<p>

that's why.

p.s. sorry this is getting long, but thank you so much for the reviews/faves/alerts! :)


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